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EXPOSITION MEMORIES 



CALIFORNIA STATE BUILDING FROM THE NORTHEAST 



Exposition Memories 

Panama-California Exposition, San Diego, 1916 

BY 
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 

introduction by 
CAROLINE REMONDINO FRANKLIN 

A CHAPTER BY 

BERTHA BLISS TYLER 

AND THE PROSE AND POETIC WRITINGS OF 

SAN DIEGO WRITERS 

READ AT THE EXPOSITION 




1917 

The Radiant Life Press 
Pasadena, California 



BOOKS BY DEORGE WHARTON JAMES 



QUIT YOUR WORRYING 

UVING THi; RADIANT LIFE 

ARIZONA, THE WONDERLAND 

CALIFORNIA, THE ROMANTIC AND BEAUTIFUL 

PICTURESQUE PALA 

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE AND THE STORY OF "CURFEW MUST NOT 

RING TONIGHT" 
WINTER SPORTS IN THE HIGH SIERRAS 
OVER THE APACHE TRAIL IN ARIZONA 
IN AND AROUND THE GRAND CANYON 
IN AND OUT OF THE OLD MISSIONS 
INDIAN BASKETRY 
PRACTICAL BASKET MAKING 

THE INDIANS OF THE PAINTED DESERT REGION 
THE STORY OF SCRAGGLES 
THROUGH RAMONA'S COUNTRY 
THE WONDERS OF THE COLORADO DESERT 
THE INDIANS' SECRETS OF HEALTH 
THE HEROES OF CALIFORNIA 
THE CALIFORNIA BIRTHDAY BOOK 

THE HOUSE BLESSING CEREMONY AND GUEST BOOK 
EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD— AN APPRECIATION 
THE LAKE OF THE SKY— LAKE TAHOE 
OUR AMERICAN WONDERLANDS . 
RECLAIMING THE ARID DESER-f^ * 

LITTLE JOURNEYS TO STRANGE 'PLACES AND PEOPLES 
THE FRANCISCAN MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA 
THE GRAND CANYON OF ARIZONA— HOW TO SEE IT 
INDIAN BLANKETS AND THEIR MAKERS 

Further particulars of these books may be had by addressing the Radiant Life Press, 
1098 North Raymond Avenue, Pasadena, California 



APR 23 lSi8 



CONTENTS 

Chapter Page 

Introduction vii 

I. Memories of the San Diego Exposition . . 11-24 

II. The San Diego Exposition "California 

Literature Class" 25-58 

III. The California Authors' Days . . . 59-75 

IV. The Literature of San Diego .... 76-79 

V. The San Diego Writers and Their Works ; 

with Biographical Sketches . . . .80-194 

VI. George Wharton James Day .... 195-207 

VII. Mr. Winslow's Book on the Exposition . 208-210 



Copyright, 1917, 

BY 

Edith E. Farnsworth 



©C!.A'497U30 
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INTRODUCTORY 

Possibly never before at any Exposition held in 
the history of the world was there so unique, peculiar 
and interesting a development as Dr. George Whar- 
ton James's California Literature Class at the Pan- 
ama-California International Exposition at San 
Diego. Started as a distinctively literary adjunct to 
his illustrated work on California, it attracted large 
and thoughtful audiences. In spite of the speaker's 
strongly marked resentment of certain habits of audi- 
ences which other lecturers generally pass over in 
silence, and of idiosyncrasies of speech and manner 
that offended a certain type of people, which con- 
stantly kept weeding out all but the most interested; 
in spite of the inconvenient hour at which the lectures 
were given, and the strongly expressed demand that 
if those present (at the opening hour) were not pre- 
pared to stay the whole hour and a quarter that the 
lecture would last, they immediately retire, — I say 
that, in spite of all these things, the audiences grew 
in number and in interest, until these lectures became 
one of the strongly marked and attractive features 
of the Exposition. A birthday dinner given by Dr. 
James to over a hundred of the Class and their 
guests, which was cooked a la camp-fire by the dis- 
tinguished lecturer himself and served under his 
direction in the open air of the Pepper Tree Grove, 
but served to cement the bonds of the Class more 
fully. 



As one result of the work done certain days were 
designated by the Exposition for the honoring of 
sixteen of the well-known authors of California, and 
the conducting of these Author's Days was delivered 
over to Dr. James and his Class. How well and sat- 
isfactorily the work was done the thousands who at- 
tended the ceremonies will gladly attest. As a fur- 
ther result of these activities a splendid set of auto- 
graphed photographs of the Authors honored, to- 
gether with life-sized busts of Joaquin Miller and 
George Wharton James were placed in the San 
Diego Public Library as a memorial of the work of 
the Class throughout the Exposition year of 1916. 

The last of these happy and instructive days was 
devoted to the Writers of San Diego, and at its close 
there was such a unanimous expression of desire 
that Dr. James prepare a volume, containing the 
poems, stories, etc., read by him on this occasion, and 
also giving a brief history of the Class, that he con- 
sented to undertake its publication. 

The accompanying pages are the outcome of his 
endeavors, written while he was supposed to be rest- 
ing in the country for three or four days after the 
close of the Exposition. 

As the record of a unique and fascinating Class 
association, and certainly of the most altruistic piece 
of Exposition work performed during the whole of 
its existence, it must have its value as well as its in- 
terest to those who in any way participated in it. 

In addition to what I have adduced for the pub- 
lication of this book, another reason is well stated as 
follows by Dr. James himself: 

Expositions mean little unless their spirit — the chief essence 
of them — can be passed on. Their physical appearances pass 



out of existence as a whole, though, as in San Diego, some 
of the buildings and their exquisite surroundings remain. 
Their visualized activities cease, but the heart, the spirit of 
them remain enshrined in memory, and this book will be a 
helper, a continual refresher of the memory of those who were 
actual participants, and may evoke some of the spirit in those 
who were unable to be present, but who are in a receptive 
condition as to the animating impulse of the activities. 

As it is, the book goes forth as a memorial of the 
joy many people had at an Exposition they can never 
forget. 

Caroline Remondino Franklin. 

San Diego, Calif. 




CHAPTER I. 

MEMORIES OF THE SAN DIEGO 
EXPOSITION 

E RETAIN in mind as permanent posses- 
sions the memory of many physical and ma- 
terial things that have passed away from 
sight. Our memories also are spiritual pos- 
sessions to be brought up at will for our en- 
joyment, encouragement and inspiration. 

Few sentient beings who saw the San Diego Expo- 
sition could ever forget the initial impression they re- 
ceived as they first saw the Exposition and its sur- 
roundings from the Cabrillo Bridge. Immediately 
ahead the exquisitely delicate and graceful tower of 
the California Building, with its tiled dome below 
dominated all the surrounding buildings. To the left 
were the strangely varied buildings of the Isthmus 
and the rugged and rough sandstone piles of the 
Indian villages of the Painted Desert. To the right, 
glimpsed through trees of a thousand and one va- 
rieties of foliage, were seen the Fine Arts, Foreign 
Industries, and San Joaquin Valley Buildings, with a 
portion of the classic grace and elegance of the Or- 
gan Pavilion, while across the canyons and ravines, 
whose slopes were covered with shrubs, flowers, 
plants and trees, were the Utah, Montana, New 
Mexico and other buildings of the participating 
states. At our very feet, as we looked over the para- 
pet, were more trees and shrubs, leading the eye 



12 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

down to the lily pond, where myriads of lilies of 
gorgeous colorings as well as petals of purest white 
spread their delicate beauty over the water of what 
otherwise would have been a dirty and repulsive 
roadside pond. 

Equally beautiful and impressive was the view 
when coming up on the road to the Eastern entrance, 
whether by electric car or automobile. After being 
duly impressed with the majesty and solidity of the 
High School, and the vast proportions and capacity 
of the Stadium, where 38,000 people could be seated 
to watch a scene in an arena where 5,000 to 10,000 
more of performers could find place, one might feel 
that the exterior approaches would render insignifi- 
cant or at least belittle the Exposition. Instead of 
that, these buildings merely served to enhance the 
glory and charm, the serene unconsciousness with 
which the Exposition — a city set upon a hill — dom- 
inated in queenly regnancy, everything by which it 
was surrounded. 

And then the flowers, shrubbery and trees of the 
approach ! How wonderful they were. How rich 
the memories of their incomparable beauty. They 
were the gorgeous pretaste of the repast of floral 
splendors within that made this the greatest floral 
Exposition the world has ever known. Every view 
in every direction was a joy and a satisfaction in this 
particular. Merely to enumerate the flowers and 
flowering trees would require pages of this volume, 
and to describe their combinations, their artistic set- 
tings, their massings, their subtle separations, their 
profusion, their prodigality of color, and the wisdom 
with which they were changed and thus made to give 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 13 

a procession of varied splendors, Is beyond the pen 
of any man save that of an artist and a poet. As I 
write I have before me a picture in water-color of 
Henri Guignon, the courteous director of the rail- 
way bureau in the French building. It shows the 
dome of the California building from the rear. At 
its base is a flaming bed of cannae, of several varie- 
ties, each more gorgeous and brilliant than the 
others, the whole forming a picture that would seem 
exaggerated except to those who knew the reality. 

I close my eyes. In a moment a picture of rich 
beds of misembryanthemums, literally acres in ex- 
tent in the aggregate, glowing color fairly dazzling 
one, comes up in my memory — beds lining the road- 
sides, beds covering bare patches of ravines, a bed 
here, another yonder, but always harmonizing with 
the landscape of which It formed a part. 

Equally gorgeous were the climbing masses of bou- 
gainvillae. How I used to love to watch them as I 
went day by day to the San Joaquin Valley building, 
the purple leaves blown by the gentle morning 
breezes up and down the corridors. How the flam- 
ing color demanded one's attention to the charm of 
the white buildings with their Individualistic adorn- 
ments, and taught one how much loving thought had 
been put Into the apparently insignificant details. 

Then there was the hedge of heliotrope that sepa- 
rated the lawn leading to the organ from the plaza. 
How dainty and sweet it was, and how the humming- 
birds loved it and flitted to and fro, sipping Its 
honeyed blossoms, like irrldescent jewels on wings. 

My memories of the rose garden, and of the flow- 
ers behind the Fine Arts building and the Foreign 



14 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Industries building, and of the garden in front of the 
Southern California building, are so many and com- 
plex that it is almost impossible to dissever them one 
from another. It is as if one were able to recall a 
score, a hundred, concerts of the Boston Symphony 
orchestra, all at one time, without remembering 
whether it was a Beethoven concerto, a Mozart so- 
nata, a chorus by Handel, a march by Gounod, an 
overture by Wagner, or a fantasia by Strauss, that 
delighted you at any particular concert, but that 
somehow the composite memory of all the pieces, 
varied and perhaps conflicting though they were, de- 
liciously and brilliantly harmonized to your complete 
and utter satisfaction. 

Then in marked contrast, but oh how sweet the 
memories, of those quiet shaded little walks, near 
the edges of the ravines and up and down their 
slopes. Yonder I sat with a dear friend peering 
through a screen of delicate acacia blooms and leaves 
to the serene majesty of the arches of the Cabrillo 
bridge. Here I used to come as often as I could 
spare the time to watch the curved-billed threshers 
hunting for their food in the dry leaves under the 
trees; yonder it was the view, gained across the ra- 
vine, of the New Mexico building and its associates 
that made the great attraction. Never so long as I 
live shall I forget those quiet and alluring walks, — 
the sense of restfulness they brought, the calm seren- 
ity that possessed one, and the gentle joy that flowed 
through one's whole being in the delightful contem- 
plation of these retired silvan nooks. 

Then, too, the trees ! Wherever had so wonderful 
a collection of trees, especially of varied eucalyptus 




FACHADA OF THE CALIFORNIA STATE BUILDING 




ENTRANCE FROM TPIE NORTH GARDENS TO 
CALIFORNIA QUADRANGLE 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 15 

and acacia, been made to grow in so short a time as 
here lined the lawns, the buildings, and covered the 
slopes of the ravines. When the wind was blowing — 
not often enough to suit me — I fairly reveled in the 
moving pictures formed by the tall and stately euca- 
lyptus against the pure blue San Diego sky, and the 
blooming acacias, with their daintily colored and en- 
chantingly varied leaves were a never-ending source 
of delight. One night I sat at the foot of one of the 
larger trees, nearly through the morning hours, with 
a congenial comrade who had come to visit me, 
and the night song of the tree, as the sea-breezes blew 
through its branches, made such an impression that 
its memory can never fade. 

Of the architecture I scarcely dare speak. I was 
ever planning to study it more fully. There is the 
deep regret within me that my time was so occupied 
that I could not do so. Temporary though many 
of the buildings were said to be, their architecture 
was so appealing and so satisfying, and their local 
ornamentation so suggestive of California history 
and heroes that I wished to remember, that I shall 
never cease to wish I had been able, with Mr. Good- 
hue, the architect in chief, or Mr. Winslow, his San 
Diego collaborateur, to describe everything to me, 
to go around and fully master architecture and detail, 
both in its history and modern manifestation. But, 
imperfect though my knowledge and detailed obser- 
vation were, there are none but satisfying and heart- 
warming memories of the buildings. I have the same 
feeling about the buildings of the San Francisco Ex- 
position, but produced by entirely different causes. 
When I consider the majesty, the sublimity, the pon- 



16 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

derous vastness of the buildings, the domes, the 
arches, the colonnades, etc., there, I feel as though I 
had been in the presence of a Greek athlete but of 
proportions as gigantic as those of the sons of Anak, 
whose dignity and power had been somewhat over- 
powering if not oppressive, while at San Diego I had 
been in friendly companionship with a young maiden, 
who was as good and characterful as she was pretty 
and attractive. Both were, and are, satisfying and 
warming to the heart, yet how different. 

Of the Isthmus some of the memories are very 
pleasing and worth while, and others I would as soon 
forget. My Indian friends at The Painted Desert; 
Captain, the horse with the human brain; Madame 
Ellis, the telepathist; the Panama Canal; Ernest 
Darling, the Nature man, and Tommy Getz's Pan- 
orama of the Missions were always interesting to me. 
Several times, to please a young friend, I took a ride 
in the red devil racer, and enjoyed to the full the ex- 
hilarating ups and thrilling downs of that wildly 
dashing car. Many a time I walked back and forth 
with the Nature man, enjoying his courage in daring 
to dress in the way he believed best, regardless of ad- 
verse public opinion, and ate with him those simple 
meals of uncooked fruit, vegetables, nuts and oils 
which had brought him to his present state of healthy 
vigor. This was one of many friendships the Ex- 
position gave to me, the memories of which will ever 
be sweet and precious. The Hindoo, Deva Ram 
Sokul, whom I had met before in friendly intimacy in 
San Francisco; his co-worker, Miss Gee; Alexander 
Hume Ford, of the Hawaiian building; Mr. and 
Mrs. Wilson of the Southern California building; 




GEORGE STERLING 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 17 

Henri Guignon, of the French exhibit; the director 
and all the attendants of the Canadian buildings; 
Tommasino and all his bandmen; Rosslter MIkel of 
the Administration building, with all the officers and 
their many helpers, not one of whom was ever any- 
thing but agreeable, kindly and helpful to me 
throughout the whole year, are some of those of 
whom I can never think without a warming sensation 
of the cockles of my heart. And I should be most 
unmindful were I to fall to mention the host and 
hostess of the San Joaquin Valley building, with 
whom I was in daily association, Mr. and Mrs. John 
G. Tyler; and Dan, my lantern operator; Mr. and 
Mrs. Fromm, who had the luncheon concession 
there; the gracious lady of the Rose Garden; Miss 
Gilbert, who directed the musical events ; H. J. Pen- 
fold, the genial secretary, and G. Aubrey Davidson, 
the active and efficient president of the Exposition, 
who had been my good friend for twenty-five 
or more years, and last, but dearest in my regard for 
the daily joy he gave me in listening to his exquisite 
music on the great Spreckels organ, as well as the 
many especial tokens of his friendliness, Humphrey 
J. Stewart, the organist and composer. Are these 
memories to be slighted or overlooked? Each one 
has a definite and explicit connection with the Exposi- 
tion, and long will it be, I hope, before any of the 
sweetness of any of them will be dimmed in the 
slightest. 

My memories of the events at the great Spreckels 
organ are so many and so varied that It is Impossible 
even to mention them all. The joy of Dr. Stewart's 
daily playing never once flagged. I delighted In his 



18 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

last concert as much as, perhaps more than, his first. 
Then Ellen Beach Yaw, Schumann-Heink, Carrie 
Jacobs Bond, Amy M. Beach, and how many others 
it is needless to say, come again and again to my mind 
in pleasantest remembrance. And, of course, the 
egotism of myself is flattered as I recall the occasions 
where I had the pleasure of addressing large audi- 
ences at the organ pavilion: Bunker Hill Day, Joa- 
quin Miller Day, Bird-Box Day, etc., and especially 
on the day set apart by the officials and my friends to 
do me honor. How ungrateful I would be if this were 
not deeply and securely enshrined in the most sacred 
chambers of my memory. 

Then I do not forget the honor given me in that 
I was privileged to give the addresses on Olive Day, 
Hawaiian Day, Peace Day, Bird Day, and that 
never-to-be-forgotten day, when Protestants and 
Catholics, people of all religions and no religions, 
gathered to do reverent and affectionate homage to 
Junipero Serra, the founder of Christian civilization 
in California. 

Here, too, at the organ, I heard some fine chorus 
singing by local choral bodies under excellent leader- 
ship and discipline. What a joy there is in the light 
and airy singing of glees and songs of the sprightlier 
vein, and then the massive crash and harmonies of 
chorals, oratorios and choruses of sterner and hea- 
vier mood. Many of these were heard to our keen 
enjoyment and memory enrichment. 

The Plaza de Panama has its scores of memories, 
but bold and strong amongst them are those of the 
drills of army and navy boys, led by their respective 
bands. How proud the people were of these well- 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 19 

drilled soldier and sailor boys, and how interested 
they were in the ready and prompt way in which they 
responded to the commands of their officers in per- 
forming the most complex evolutions. Then once in 
a while we were favored by seeing their "setting-up" 
exercises. Like a gymnasium or physical-culture 
school exhibition, the boys stood so far apart and, 
at the word of command, made the motions and per- 
formed the individual exercises which result in their 
muscular development and up-standing appearance. 
Another interesting series of memory and tone 
pictures come to me, as I sit and ruminate over my 
enjoyments of the dainty Exposition. I saw a cabal- 
lero in gorgeous Spanish costume, singing to a beau- 
tifully robed seiiorita on a balcony above — I looked 
about for her duenna but she was not to be seen. 
The song was clearly a love song, of passionate in- 
tensity, and the lady evidently responded. It was all 
so real, and so naive, that I was entirely taken in with 
it. The balcony overlooked a quiet little garden be- 
hind one of the main buildings, and I was sure I had 
accidentally fallen upon a secret touch of romance. 
But I soon learned that the seiiorita was the wife of 
the gallant singer, and his songs had become an old 
story to her, and that these two were but part of a 
group of Spanish singers, players and dancers who 
were engaged for the year to sing, play or dance 
wherever they could please or interest the visitors. J 
can see them in the corridors, hear the jingle of the 
tambourines, and the sharp rattle of the castanets, the 
ping-pong of the guitar, and the human note of the 
violin, as well as the blending songs of men and 
women, in court, patio, garden and cafe. They were 



20 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

ever ready, ever gracious, ever pleasing, and one's 
memories of them are always of delight and joy. 

Connected with them are the dinners and banquets 
at the Cristobal cafe. Dinners, lunches, where but 
two friends met, or a family party, and then banquets 
where some notable man or woman was to be hon- 
ored. There were the tasty dishes, the flashes of 
wit and brilliant conversations, the lively sallies 
across the festive board, which was beautified by the 
pillage of the most gorgeous of the flower-beds and 
the rarest and most delicate of the ferns, and then 
the speeches, full of good humor, cordial welcome, 
keen appreciation, or what not, sending every one 
away feeling more than ever the joy of fellowship, 
and the delight of meeting and making new acquain- 
tances and friends. 

Two of my most exciting memories — three in fact 
— are, first, of the great automobile race. I don't 
remember what international event it was, or what 
cup and moneys were to be the prizes, but I do re- 
member seeing the heroes of the auto tracks, and 
feeling the thrill of their daring, their persistent 
speed, their plucky spurts, and their reckless bravery. 
How I shouted — with the crowd — when the winner 
passed the grandstand, and how sorry I felt for the 
defeated, the good sports who took their overcoming 
as good-naturedly — at least outwardly — as the win- 
ner took his success. Then, second, I saw Joe Bouquel 
make those wonderful flights of his that surpassed 
the earlier ones I had witnessed of poor, ill-fated 
Beachy, and of successful and youthful Art Smith. 
How marvellous his twisting and turning over in the 
region of the clouds; how reckless his falling like a 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 21 

leaf, fluttering first to one side and then to another, 
and finally, how sad his last descent, when his flutter- 
ings became a straight descent and he fell never to 
rise again. Though he was the third man I had seen 
fall to his death, it did not deter me from gaining my 
third exciting memory, though it was only indirectly 
connected with the Exposition. "The Big Swede," 
who had built his own hydroplane and had located on 
the bay shore near to the old artillery barracks, took 
me up one morning over the bay, the battleships, 
Coronado, Point Loma, the Pacific ocean, and North 
island. How we sailed through the blue, rising 
higher and higher until our aneroid registered be- 
tween four and five thousand feet, and what a won- 
derful sensation of flight I enjoyed as we came shoot- 
ing down in a graceful slope to the level of the water 
at a speed far surpassing that ever reached in the 
fastest automobile or railway train on which I have 
ever ridden. We saw the Exposition clearly and in 
detail from our elevated position, and that real 
"bird's-eye view" of it will ever be one of my most 
enjoyable recollections. 

Two other things stand out definitely and force- 
fully in my Exposition memories. These are the joy 
of listening to Tommasino's band, and the delight of 
watching the pigeons. In San Francisco one heard 
so many bands — and all of them good — that they lost 
the joy of intimate personality. Here we had one 
good band, composed throughout of excellent per- 
formers, and with a few soloists of exceptional pow- 
ers, the whole under the baton of a superior leader 
and director. We expected good music all the time 
and were never disappointed. At times the band rose 



22 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

to heights of superlative expression, which gave us 
extraordinary joy and established memories that have 
lifted us into higher realms of musical appreciation, 
and San Diego can never again be, in band music, 
what it was before the advent of Tommasino. 

Then the fluttering, flying, strutting, winning, woo- 
ing, refusing, yielding life of the pigeons, and the 
pure and unadulterated delight so many thousands of 
men, women and children received from these beauti- 
ful domestic birds, who can describe and who can es- 
timate ? This was one of the chief pleasures of thou- 
sands who came, either as casual or regular visitors, 
to the Exposition. The irridescent colors of their 
plumage never seemed to be dimmed; their readiness 
to eat the seeds so profusely scattered by visitors 
was never diminished; the ardor of the love-making 
of the males never once ceased, with the sweetness of 
their love-notes ringing in the air; and the confident 
expectation that it would ever continue never for a 
moment left the consciousness of the females. How 
interesting it all was; and how joyous the ecstatic 
notes of happy children constantly rose above all 
other sounds, as the little ones felt the fearlessness 
of the birds, as they alighted on shoulders, laps, 
heads and arms. It was a lesson in universal kin- 
ship to many people who never before had seen 
hundreds of birds under the influence of human love 
which sought nothing but their comfort and 
pleasure. 

Then how dazzingly beautiful the scene when they 
arose in flight, circling from one end of the plaza to 
the other, some alighting in one place, and some else- 
where, while still others flew up to the towers above. 



THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 23 

As the sun shone upon the moving wings and downy 
breasts of irridescent sheen, one saw or imagined 
pictures of glorified angels winging their way in the 
sunshine of God's smile and doing His service in 
bringing messages of joy to all mankind. 

At night, too, at sunset or thereabouts, after being 
fed, almost with one accord, they arose to the tow- 
ers, fluttered and gossipped there, some inside, some 
out, until the full flood of the day's activity receded 
from their pretty little bodies, and then, one by one 
the laggards found their perches and all was still 
save, now and again, a belated love-call, a sweet, gen- 
tle coo, from a sleepy feathered lover to his mate. 

Thus have I recalled some of the Exposition mem- 
ories which I trust will never be forgotten. Yet, per- 
haps, one of the most lasting and permanent of all my 
memories will be of the city of San Diego spread out 
before me as I stood on the Cabrillo bridge, of the 
glorious Harbor of the Sun beyond, with sailing- 
vessels, steam vessels, yachts, rowboats and ferry- 
boats, as well as U. S. warships, cruisers and destroy- 
ers moving to and fro, or firmly anchored. To the 
east and south were the mountains of the United 
States and Mexico, the Silver Strand of Coronado's 
connecting isthmus, and before us Coronado and 
North island, on the former the colossal Hotel del 
Coronado, and its accompaniment of beautiful 
homes, on the latter the aviation headquarters. Fur- 
ther out was the Pacific ocean leading the eye over 
its placid blue to Los Coronados islands in the fur- 
ther distance, looking like two gigantic memorial 
figures lying on their backs awaiting the day of resur- 
rection, while to the extreme right, was Point Loma, 



24 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

with its theosophical headquarters, wireless station 
and towers and the old lighthouse, the whole forming 
a picture of varied splendors seldom equaled and 
hard to surpass. Thus, both in itself and in its sur- 
roundings, the San Diego Exposition has a right to 
claim permanence, for has not Keats truly declared : 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, 

Its loveliness increases; it shall never pass into nothingness. 




CHAPTER II 

THE SAN DIEGO EXPOSITION 

"CALIFORNIA LITERATURE 

CLASS" 

T THE Panama-Pacific International Ex- 
position, held in San Francisco, in 1915, it 
was my great pleasure to give daily illus- 
trated lectures on California, in the beau- 
tiful Sunset Theater of the Southern Pacific 
Company's wonderful building. Occasionally, by 
request, I gave lectures in the Palace of Education on 
some phase of CaHfornia history or literature, or on 
the individual work of some California author. All 
of these literary lectures were attended by immense 
audiences, hundreds often being turned away, unable 
to crowd their way in, as every available inch of 
standing room was occupied. The avidity with which 
the people drank of the small stream thus poured 
out of information about California and its Litera- 
ture was so remarkable that when, the following 
year, I was engaged to continue my illustrated lec- 
ture-work at the Panama-California International 
Exposition in San Diego, I determined to give a com- 
plete course of lectures on the subject, as an adjunct 
to my regular work. 

Owing to a little broader and more discriminating 
policy being followed at San Diego than in San Fran- 
cisco, I was allowed to take up a "collection" at these 
special literature lectures, thus giving to the audi- 



26 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

ence the privilege of paying at least a small sum for 
what they were receiving (a highly important moral 
consideration that should never be overlooked), 
while at the same time it gave to me some small 
recompense for the labor and expense involved. 
These lectures were given by the courtesy of Walter 
Maloy, the general manager of the San Joaquin Val- 
ley Exposition Association, in the lecture hall of the 
San Joaquin Valley Counties building, a small, poor- 
ly-ventilated and far from inviting room, but which 
seemed, at the time, the only one available. As the 
lectures were extraneous to the work for which my 
regular subscribers were paying, I was compelled to 
choose an hour for their delivery outside of the hours 
of my illustrated lectures, and this was the incon- 
venient one of 12:45 p. m. on Saturdays and Sun- 
days. This, however, soon became known as my 
especial hour, and a regular audience settled down 
to a regular attendance, with such additions and ac- 
cretions at each lecture as a floating and changeable 
attendance at the Exposition would naturally induce. 
At the illustrated lectures, in the very nature of 
the peculiar conditions of their delivery, a large por- 
tion of the audience was volatile, restless, unstable 
and thoughtless. In wandering through the building 
the eye was arrested by the representation of the 
"Big Tree," the cut through which was the entrance 
to the lecture hall. Standing here, the visitor heard 
the lecturer's voice, or saw the pictures rapidly being 
changed upon the screen, and often out of sheer 
curiosity was impelled to enter. Sometimes, after 
a few moments, or minutes, of watching and listen- 
ing, the auditor and his or her friends would de- 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 27 

cide, — as impulsively as he, she, had decided to 
enter, — that he, she, had heard and seen enough, and 
would make an exodus, totally regardless of, or indif- 
ferent to, the feelings of either lecturer or the bal- 
ance of the audience. This latter portion of my 
auditors was composed of two very distinct classes, 
viz. : First, those who had learned that I was giving 
a comprehensive course of illustrated instruction on 
the great State of California, as the result of a thor- 
ough study of it, ranging over thirty-five years, and 
who came, again and again, to hear the same lecture, 
or to secure the good of the thirty or forty different 
lectures as they were scheduled, and Second, the edu- 
cated and intelligent visitors to the Exposition who 
were glad to take advantage of a half hour's lecture 
to learn something of some special feature of Cali- 
fornia's attractiveness or commercial importance. 
The first class above named was mainly composed of 
citizens of San Diego or its contiguous towns. 

Here, then, was an audience made up of three dis- 
tinct, separate and widely different units. Its solid, 
substantial base was composed of the two elements, 
home and visiting, that earnestly desired to listen and 
learn; the balance was the unheeding, unthinking hoi- 
polloi, the crowd, the mob, the hurrying sight-seer, 
curious, thoughtless, restless, and totally regardless 
of the serious and earnest work of the lecturer and 
the major portion of his audience. 

To keep this volatile and thoughtless, and yet in- 
evitable part of the audience from dominating the 
lecture-room and thus destroying the work I was en- 
gaged to accomplish, was a problem that has taxed 
the brains of far greater men than I, and few, if any. 



28 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

have succeeded. I was determined to succeed or 
quit. Therefore I laid down three rules, which I 
vowed should be impartially enforced, the vigor of 
which should be stated to its violators with unmis- 
takable clearness. These rules were : First, no talk- 
ing or whispering would be tolerated; second, no pea- 
nut fiend should be allowed to annoy his fellow- 
guests by his shell-cracking, and then throwing the 
shells upon the floor to be trampled upon, and third, 
no crying or talking baby or child should be allowed 
to disturb or distract others because the mother was 
too tired, lazy, thoughtless or indifferent to the rights 
of others, to take her noisy little one out. 

To lay down laws is one thing; to enforce them an- 
other, yet I am willing to leave it to my audiences, or 
any one of these three elements, to say whether I 
succeeded or not. There was no mistaking even my 
most gentle remonstrances, and if those failed to pro- 
duce the required results, a second appeal — or, if 
necessary, demand — couched in more forceful words 
and offered in more positive manner, reached the 
dulled senses of the most thoughtless. Seldom was a 
third "call" required, though once in a while a well- 
dressed, apparently well-to-do, purse-proud, stomach- 
proud man or w^oman resolutely started out to "talk 
if he wanted to." Upon these ill-bred specimens of 
the genus homo, species, porcine, I had no mercy, and 
it then became a matter of such desperate earnestness 
to me that I would rather have left the Exposition, 
never to return, than have allowed the human hog to 
have his way. Suflice it to say I never once yielded, 
and therefore did not leave the Exposition. 

Three interesting outcomes were delightful results 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 29 

of this determination and persistence in a course that 
all my professional brethren of the platform vowed 
I should fail in. The first was that hundreds of in- 
telligent people came to thank me for the joy I had 
given them of being freed from the nuisance and 
pest of the whisperer, the peanut shell-cracking fiend, 
and the crying or noisy baby. The second was that 
educators from all over the United States came per- 
sonally, or wrote, to enquire of me how it was done, 
and the third was the organization of a "society," 
half in fun and half in earnest, entitled "The Anti- 
Whispering Society," the spirit of which caught hold 
all over the country and led to much newspaper and 
other comment, after I had issued the following ex- 
planatory letter : 

Who is there, of decent susceptibilities, who has not been 
annoyed, almost to the limit of endurance, at a sermon, con- 
cert, lecture, or theatre by the whispering of some ill-bred, 
thoughtless, or inconsiderate person nearby? Everybody at 
some time or another has been pestered by the whisperer, and 
yet we do not seem to learn the lesson that OUR whispering 
is as much a nuisance and irritation to others, when WE 
indulge in it, as the OTHER PERSON'S is to us, when 
HE indulges in it. 

The American people are a boastful and proud people. 

Such people are often inconsiderate of the rights and feel- 
ings of others. In our self-conscious assertions that we are 
as good as anybody else, if not a little better, we are apt to 
be impatient of anything and everything that seems to suggest 
that we are not perfectly free to do as we like. We believe 
in personal liberty. We claim it to an excessive degree — a 
degree totally unknown today in the war-cursed countries of 
Europe. I would not curtail any person's true liberty one 
iota, willingly or consciously. Yet we cannot ignore the fact 
that we are gregarious beings, and that in our gregarious 
life our own personal liberty must often be curtailed for the 



30 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

common good. I have the perfect right to blow a trombone 
or to beat a drum, but if I were to do this at midnight in a 
residence neighborhood, and keep on doing it, it would not 
be long before an injunction would be sued out against me 
or, if the police were "onto their job," I should be arrested, 
put in jail or under bonds, until a judge and jur}- could sit 
on my case and eventually "sit on" my conception of perfect 
personal liberty. 

So long as we live in society and our actions affect others, 
we must, as far as is consistent with proper personal develop- 
ment, consider the rights and liberties of others. No person 
has the right, in the exercise of his personal freedom, to 
entrench upon the rights of another. I may have a perfect 
right to keep chickens, but if I allow my chickens to run 
loose and they get into my neighbor's flower or vegetable 
garden and scratch it to pieces, my right ought to be restricted, 
and my chickens either penned up or ruthlessly shot. 

Every man has a perfect right to so exercise his personal 
liberty that he can swing his arms or clenched fists, as he 
chooses, but his personal liberty to do this ends where my 
nose begins. 

Every woman has a perfect liberty to speak to her neighbor 
all she chooses, but at a concert, lecture, sermon or theater, 
her freedom to do this ends where my hearing begins. I have 
the right to listen undisturbed. This is inalienable. No one 
should be able to take it from me. Custom, however, is very 
powerful, and custom in the United States has, so far, 
allowed this inexcusable encroachment upon another's rights 
by granting to the whisperer tolerance, if not respect and 
freedom from the reproach he or she deserves. I deem the 
time ripe for a change in this custom. The whisperer is 
entitled neither to tolerance or respect. He, she, is ever and 
always a pest and a nuisance. Well-bred, educated and 
taught in other respects, the whisperer is ill-bred, unedu- 
cated and improperly taught so long as his, her, whispering 
annoys and disturbs others. The theft of one's money would 
be regarded as a crime punishable by the law, by imprison- 
ment and disgrace, but the far more serious theft of one's 
time, one's opportunity to hear, which may be a rare one and 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 31 

may never occur again, of one's peace of mind, comfort and 
pleasure, this theft is allowed to pass by uncensured, unre- 
buked, unchastised. Personally, though I am a poor man 
in this world's goods, I would far rather submit to the theft 
of my hard-earned money, than to the theft of my time, my 
opportunity to listen, my peace, equanimity and serenity. The 
whisperer is a thief of all these things. His, or her, whisper- 
ing habit I loathe, I despise, I condemn. I want her, or him, 
also to know my feeling. For the whisperer seldom or never 
whispers about anything that amounts to anything. If it 
were an important matter that led to the chatter or disturbing 
SISS-SISS-SISSING, one could train himself to bear it with 
equanimity. But it is not. No habitual whisperer ever had 
brains enough ever to speak or even think seriously upon any 
matter unless he were shocked, shamed or forced to think. 

THE ANTI-WHISPERING SOCIETY is organized 
for the purpose of doing this very thing. To those who are 
considerate of the feelings of their fellows, a hint is sufficient. 
But the habitual whisperer is never considerate. She will see 
you looking at her with every sign of disapproval on your 
face ; will hear your warning SH ! SH ! ; will even listen to 
your request that she give you the opportunity to listen to the 
speaker or singer undisturbed, and with as little care as a cat 
shows for the feeling of the mouse she crunches between her 
carnivorous teeth, will indifferently and defiantly go on whis- 
pering and annoying not only yourself, but the whole of the 
audience near enough to hear her aggravating noise. 

I was present on one occasion at the Boston Symphony 
concert, and during the whole program was exasperated by 
the continuous whispering of a well-dressed, well-appearing 
woman who sat behind me. Several remonstrating looks, 
warning SHS! SHS! from others as well as mj^self had no 
effect whatever, and we secured no comfort until, finally, I 
turned around and bade her be silent or go home, as I had 
paid for my ticket to enjoy the music and did not relish being 
swindled out of it. I had the same experience in New York, 
at the first performance of Parsifal. I had just crossed the 
continent and had gone ahead of time for the work I had to 
do, merely to hear this wonderful music. Before me, in a 



32 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

box, was a family of ill-bred, inconsiderate, but evidently 
very rich people. There w^as not a soul among them that 
even tried to listen to the music, and they kept up a continual 
chattering — it could scarcely be called whispering — during 
the entire first part of the performance. Everybody within 
hearing felt exasperated and outraged, but it was left for me 
to remonstrate with paterfamilias. He began to abuse and 
bulldoze, but a few sharp sentences and a threat to swear out 
a warrant for his arrest, brought him to time. Parsifal, how- 
ever, was largely spoiled for me. 

Again, during the time when the great oratorios were 
given every Sunday in one of the leading churches of New 
York, I used to attend, but on every occasion the solos and 
fine parts were spoiled by the rude whispering of people who 
should never have been allowed to enter the building, or, if 
there, should have been required to behave with due respect 
to their fellow-guests. 

When Paderewski gave his thrilling concerts at the 
Panama- Pacific Exposition in San Francisco, quite a number 
of people around me were annoyed and robbed of their pleas- 
ure in listening by the whispering of a couple that scarcely 
ceased each time the great pianist began to play. When I 
told them their proper place was out-of-doors, where they 
could whisper to their hearts' content, they put on an air of 
being abused and reviled, and only when my fellow-sufferers 
clapped at my remonstrance did it dawn upon them that they 
had been thieves and robbers — thieves of other people's time 
and opportunity to listen. 

There are certain things people do that are objectionable 
that they cannot help. One must sometimes sneeze, cough, 
blow his nose. These things may cause disturbance of one's 
sensibilities, but everyone sympathizes and is sorry for the 
sufferer. But it is seldom if ever necessary to whisper when 
other people are bending all their energies to listening to 
music, orator or actor, and he or she is lacking in one of the 
first and most important elements of good manners — that of 
consideration for the rights, comforts and privileges of 
others — who thoughtlessly or purposely deprives them of the 
expected pleasure by incontinent whispering. 




EDWIN MARKHAM, IN HIS CALIFORNIA DAYS 




FRED EMERSON BROOKS 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 33 

Dr. Humphrey J. Stewart, the eminent San Francisco 
organist, honored by the San Diego Exposition officials with 
the invitation to be the official organist during the years 
1915-16, has been so annoyed by the whisperers that he has 
had to have a large placard painted requesting SILENCE, 
during the rendition of his program. Yet this has little or 
no effect with a certain class of people — and many of them 
are good people, too, in other things. They do not, appar- 
ently WILL not learn that THEIR whispering is just as 
annoying as that of others. Only yesterday, a gentleman 
who, not half an hour before, had offered prayer in my hear- 
ing that Almighty God would make us considerate of the 
rights and feelings of others, came into my lecture-room, sat 
down, heard me rebuke some whispering in another part of 
the room, and then deliberately turned to his wife and began 
to whisper. Perverse? Wilful? Deliberate? I don't sup- 
pose so! Mere lack of coherent thought. Putting two and 
two together and realizing that they make four in YOUR 
case exactly as they do in the case of the notoriously vile, 
wicked and reprobate. 

I w^ould that I had the power to sear it into every person's 
consciousness that all whispering under all conditions, to all 
sentient people when they are trying to listen, is a pest and 
a nuisance. For this is exactly what I mean, exactly what I 
believe, and exactly what I am earnestly desirous that people 
should learn. If President Wilson, Czar Nicholas, Kaiser 
Wilhelm or Queen Mary were to whisper while I was trying 
to listen to a concert, sermon or lecture, it would be just 
as annoying and exasperating as though it were done by the 
greatest reprobate in America. The WHO IT IS has noth- 
ing to do with it. It is the IT IS that counts, that annoys, 
disturbs, deprives, robs and therefore that should not be. 

Hence the ANTI-WHISPERING SOCIETY. 

I may be wrong in my idea that people are willing to join 
such a society. Therefore at present I'm going to be Presi- 
dent, Secretary, Doorkeeper, Janitor and Chief High Cock-a- 
lorum of the whole business. Anyone can become a member 
and enroll himself, or herself, by observing the rule, which is 
as follows : 



34 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

/ hereby pledge myself thatj as far as I possibly can, I will 
discountenance in myself, as well as in others, the whispering 
or talking habit, during any religious service, concert, lecture, 
or other gathering where people are assembled to listen. 

The publication of this letter aroused considerable 
interest throughout the country. The Denver Post 
devoted a whole page to the subject; the San Fran- 
cisco Examiner contained several long articles and 
published letters from its readers who approved or 
disapproved of my attitude; and many papers and 
magazines commented on it and generally favored 
the suppression of the whisperer and disturber of the 
listeners' peace. Hence I hope the good work will 
go on. 

To return, now, to the San Diego Exposition. It 
will readily be apparent that all the activities I have 
mentioned mainly had to do with the audiences at the 
illustrated lectures. Yet, as the literary lectures were 
given in the same hall, and the crowds were passing 
through the main building during their delivery, we 
— the audience and myself — were liable to be in- 
truded upon at any and every moment by the same 
unthinking, heedless, noisy element, which intrusion, 
of course, would have rendered concentration and 
coherency of thought upon some definite subject prac- 
tically impossible. Then, too, many of this class of 
people, seeing a number of others entering the lec- 
ture-hall, and there being no one to demand of them 
an entrance fee, were attracted by curiosity; a few, 
perhaps, by the announcements in the newspapers of 
public programs; others by the repute of the author- 
lecturer, would take their seats in the lecture-hall, lis- 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 35 

ten a few moments, become tired, disgusted or bored, 
or find they were uninterested, and immediately, 
totally at their own sweet will and disregardful of the 
disturbance and annoyance to lecturer and audience, 
get up and go out. To keep away this irritating and 
altogether unwelcome element seemed a problem, un- 
til the direct, frank, honest, truthful solution sug- 
gested itself, viz., of telling these people they were 
invited under certain conditions, that they were pres- 
ent purely as an act of courtesy on my part, and that 
"the lecture would last an hour and a quarter, and 
if they could not stay the whole period through I de- 
sired that they immediately leave as they were un- 
invited and wwwelcome." As a rule this succeeded 
in ridding us of the restless element, though now and 
again a porcine member remained, only to clatter out 
invariably at some critical point in the reading of a 
poem, or when any disturbance was highly irritating 
because distractive of the attention. 

If it were possible, I generally stopped in my read- 
ing or lecture, called the offender's attention to his 
gross violation of the rules of courtesy and good 
breeding, bade him God-speed on his exit and urged 
him (often her) never to come again to my lectures 
until he was ready to observe the common courtesy 
that gentlemen and ladies always observe in their re- 
lationship to their fellow-guests in any place to which 
they have been invited. 

Of course, I offended many — for in the aggregate 
during the year there were many offenders to be of- 
fended — but my consolation was that mayhap I had 
set them thinking, and God knows the whole Ameri- 
can nation needs it, — upon their rudeness and ill- 



36 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

manners, often, of course, only the result of sheer 
thoughtlessness. 

I now come to a far more interesting, though I do 
not deem it any more important, development of the 
work of the Class. The subjects of my lectures on 
California Literature were as follows : 

(1) Introductory: The California Spirit in Literature; 
(2) The Literature of the Aborigines; (3) Literature of the 
Epoch of Spanish Discovery; (4) Literature of the Padres; 
(5) Literature of the Pioneers; (6) Founding of the Over- 
land Monthly; (7) Joaquin Miller, the Poet of the Sierras; 
(8) The CaHfornia Humorists; (9) Ambrose Bierce, the 
Last of the Satirists and His Great Pupils, George 
Sterling and Herman Scheffauer; (10) Edwin Markham, 
the Poet of Humanity; (11) The Nature Writers; (12) 
A Cycle of Early Verse; (13) The Poets of San Jose; (14) 
The Religious Verse of California; (15) A Cycle of Later 
California Verse; (16) The History Writers of California; 
(17) Some California Novelists; (18) A Sextet of Women 
Novelists — Atherton, Bonner, Overton, Charles, Michelson 
and Gates; (19) Frank Norris, Jack London and Herman 
Whitaker; (20) The Writers of San Diego; (21) The 
Literature of Point Loma (Theosophical) ; (22) The Liter- 
ature of Ellen G. White (one of the founders of the Seventh 
Day Adventist movement). 

As a result of these lectures many asked for fur- 
ther particulars about individual authors, and there 
also were requests that certain lectures be repeated. 
The outcome was the Exposition officials were urged 
to sent aside certain days upon which specified Cali- 
fornia Authors should be honored, their writings 
read or recited, their songs sung, and an address 
given upon their work and its accepted or relative 
place in literature. 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 37 

The Authors so selected for honor, and their days, 
were as follows : 

Oct. 10. Mark Twain Day. 

18. Bret Harte Day. 

26. Edwin Markham Day. 
Nov. 2. Ina Coolbrith Day. 
9. George Sterling Day. 

16. Joaquin Miller Day. 

24. Fred Emerson Brooks Day. 

30. John Vance Cheney Day. 
Dec. 7. Jack London Day. 

14. Josephine Clifford McCrackin Day. 

21. Harold Bell Wright Day. 

26. Rose Hartwick Thorpe Day. 

27. George Wharton James Day. 

28. San Diego Writers Day. 

These celebrations were held in the lecture-hall 
of the Southern California Counties building, by the 
kind courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. Wilson, 
the host and hostess, and whose generous hospitality 
the Class thoroughly appreciated, and the audience, 
whether composed of visitors or the people of San 
Diego, can never fully repay. 

Three definite and clear purposes were ever kept 
in mind in the conducting of these "Days." The first 
was the fullest possible presentation of the life and 
work of the author honored in order that his, or her, 
writings might be more fully known and appreciated. 
The second was to arouse, especially in the students 
of the San Diego High School and the State Normal 
School, a keener interest in the works of these au- 
thors, and the third was to secure, by means of the 
collections, handsome, autographed photographs, or 



38 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

busts, of the authors honored, which should be 
placed, at the close of the Exposition, in the San 
Diego Public Library as a permanent memorial of 
the work of the Literature Class at the Exposition. 
The various Women's Clubs of San Diego were 
invited to be the hostesses and their presidents the 
presiding officers on each of the occasions. The 
clubs and presidents thus participating were as fol- 
lows : 

Bret Harte Day, October 18 

Hostesses: Members of the Wednesday Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. Edgar J. Kendall, President. 

Edwin Markham Day, October 26 

Hostesses: Members of the Public Library Staff. 
Chairman : Mrs. A. E. Horton. 

Ina Coolbrith Day, November 2 

Hostesses: Members of the Poetry Society. 

Chairman: Mrs. Lila Munroe Tainter, President of the 

San Diego Chapter of the Poetry Society of 

America. 

George Sterling Day, November 9 

Hostesses: Members of the San Diego Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. E. D. Miller, President. 

Joaquin Miller Day, November 16 

Hostesses: Members College Women's Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. Grace H. Eraser, Ex-President, 

Fred Emerson Brooks Day, November 23 

Hostesses: Members of the Poetry Society. 

Chairman: Mrs. Katherine Howard, Founder of the San 
Diego Chapter of the Poetry Society of Amer- 
ica. 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 39 

John Vance Cheney Day, November 30 
Hostesses: Members San Diego Women's Press Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. Maude Ervay Fagin, President, 

Jack London Day, December 7 
Hostesses: Members of College Women's Club. 
Chair?nan: Mrs. Adele M. Outcalt, President. 

Josephine Clifford McCrackin Day, December 14 
Hostesses: Members Women's Press Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. Maribel Yates, President. 

Harold Bell Wright Day, December 21 

Hostesses: Members San Diego Writers' Club. 
Chairman : Mrs. Maribel Yates, President. 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Day, December 26 

Hostesses: Members San Diego Club. 
Chairman: Mrs. E. D. Miller, President. 

George Wharton James Day, December 27 

Hostesses: The Ladies of the Exposition Literature Class. 
Chairman: Rev. Charles E. Spalding, Rector Episcopal 
Churchj Coronado. 

San Diego Writers' Day, December 28 

Hostesses: Members Wednesday Club. 
Chairman : Miss Emma F. Way, Vice-President. 

The Ridgev^ay Tea Company of Bombay, Cal- 
cutta, London, Paris and New York, under the Ex- 
position management of that cultured Hindoo, Deva 
Ram Sokul, each week donated tea, with all necessary 
accompaniments, which the hostesses served, making 
a small charge for each cup, the amount secured 
therefrom going to pay for the photographs to be 
placed in the City Library. 



40 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

All the objects of the Class were more or less suc- 
cessfully attained. We were favored with the pres- 
ence of George Sterling, who gave some most inter- 
esting reminiscences of Joaquin Miller, Ambrose 
Bierce, Edwin Markham, Jack London and other 
California literati. Juanita, the daughter of Joaquin 
Miller, came from The Hights, above Oakland, and 
directed a Garland Dance, with song of her own 
composition, on her father's Day. Harold Bell 
Wright favored us with his presence, made a brief 
address, and he and Mr. Sterling were especially 
favored by the Woman's Board of the Exposition, 
who held a reception in their beautiful parlors in 
their honor. Fred Emerson Brooks, the inimitable, 
the versatile, who is equally noteworthy as a deline- 
ator upon the platform and a poet, was here, not only 
for his own Day, but for several days, and charmed 
and thrilled the thousands with his humor, pathos, 
and dramatic fire. Josephine Clifford McCrackin, — 
who, in spite of her seventy-eight years, is as young 
at heart as a girl of seventeen, — came from Santa 
Cruz, and told us, in fascinating simplicity, of her 
early-day associations with Bret Harte, Ina Cool- 
brith, Joaquin Miller, Ambrose Bierce and others, 
thrilling her auditors with the recital of the destruc- 
tion of her home on the Santa Cruz mountains by a 
wide-spread forest fire. 

John Vance Cheney, who, for some years past, has 
resided in San Diego, gave several reminiscences of 
his association with Dana, Edmund Clarence Sted- 
man, and others of the great Eastern poets, and also 
told the interesting story of how he came to write the 
"Reply" to Markham's "Man With the Hoe," which 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 41 

won him the prize of four hundred dollars ($400), 
that had been offered by Collis P. Huntington, who 
regarded Markham's poem as an affront to labor 
itself. 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe, who also lives in San 
Diego, was present on her Day, and gained many 
new friends, who realized the bravery and heroism 
of her own life, especially in the early Michigan and 
Texas days. 

The inspiration of contact with these rare person- 
alities was felt in increased enthusiasm and interest 
in the study of their works. Comparatively large 
numbers of copies of their books were sold, and the 
City Librarian reported demands that she could do 
no more than merely begin to satisfy. And this is a 
matter not to be lightly passed over. To me it is of 
the utmost importance. To come in touch, even in a 
limited way, with the soul- and mind-stimulating 
work of poets like Miller, Markham, Sterling, 
Cheney, Brooks and Mrs. Thorpe, is in itself an in- 
spiration and uplift, but to feel the touch of the per- 
sonality itself is to awaken an interest, a sympathy, a 
tie, that the human nature of us quickly responds to. 

Every one of these poets and writers is immeas- 
urably better known to-day in San Diego, and wher- 
ever the visitors to the Exposition have carried the 
influence of California Authors' Days, than could 
have resulted in any other way. And the outcome of 
a larger study of their works will yield quickened 
mental and spiritual life to a degree that only eternity 
can reveal. 

The audiences were as large as, and oftentimes 
much larger than, the lecture-room could hold. 



42 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Some of the students of the schools were interested 
enough to attend and write papers upon the authors 
discussed, and the Class distributed small prizes to 
those whose efforts were deemed worthy. The col- 
lection of photographs was and is a joy to all who 
have seen it, being a rare, beautiful, and valuable ac- 
quisition to any library, and the trustees of the San 
Diego Library have not only gratefully acknowl- 
edged the gift, but have intimated their desire to set 
apart a good sized room in their new building as a 

CALIFORNIA LITERATURE ROOM 

where the busts will occupy positions of honor, and 
the photographs be placed upon the walls. The 
busts referred to are a life-like presentment of Joa- 
quin Miller, approved by his wife and daughter, 
done from life by Rupert Schmidt, of Alameda, and 
one of myself done by Miss Helen Mann of San 
Diego. 

Naturally the work attendant upon these Authors' 
Days had to be shared, or it could never have been 
accomplished. The lion's part of the executive work 
fell upon Miss Bertha Bliss Tyler, of The White 
Bungalow, 1031 Hunter Street, San Diego. She 
made all the necessary arrangements for the host- 
esses, chairmen, vocalists, accompanists, readers and 
reciters, and at the same time attended largely to the 
necessary work of newspaper publicity. The secre- 
tary of the Literature Class, Leigh A. Hume, was 
also very helpful, as were many others, especially 
Mrs. Marguerite Cummings Aber and Mrs. J. Kauf- 
mann. 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 43 

Another result of our Class association it would 
be ungracious for me to neglect to record. Several 
members had purchased copies of my California 
Birthday Book from which they learned of my ap- 
proaching birthday anniversary. They aroused in- 
terest enough in the Class to determine to celebrate 
it In some way. As I did not believe in, or particular- 
ly care for, an elaborate restaurant dinner, I took the 
liberty of suggesting that, if they would pay for the 
provisions, I would myself cook them as I had done 
scores of times over a campfire, without any equipage 
of stoves, bars, grates or grills, using only frying- 
pans, pots, buckets and coffee-pots. The suggestion 
was received with enthusiasm. The Exposition of- 
ficials graciously granted us the use of the Pepper 
Grove and allowed us to build a campfire, and many 
hands made light work of the preparation. At four 
o'clock I was still lecturing in the San Joaquin Valley 
hall; it was 4:15 before I arrived at the Pepper 
Grove and began to direct matters. By 4:30 the 
campfire was blazing and potatoes were being 
scrubbed, onions peeled and sliced, tables brought 
and set. At 5 :30 the guests began to assemble, and 
themselves saw the cooking of the fine, large porter- 
house steaks, bacon , etc., that I had promised. 
Promptly at six o'clock the cry went up, "Fall in at 
the tables" — for tables and rude park benches had 
been provided — a grace of thanksgiving was offered, 
and with as prompt a service as was ever given at 
banquet in the finest hotel in the world, in five more 
minutes over one hundred guests were eating the first 
course of the menu, everything piping hot, well and 
satisfactorily cooked, appetizing and delicious. 



44 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Various members had brought the "pots and 
pans;" I had personally purchased the provisions; 
Hardy's supplying the steaks and bacon, Heller's the 
general groceries and vegetables (kindly donating 
the coffee), the Globe Mills the bread and dough- 
nuts, and Showley Bros., — the candy manufacturers 
— generously sending two large boxes of candies and 
marshmallows with their compliments, while the 
Ridgeway Company again donated the tea and cakes. 

Every guest was required to bring his own spoon, 
knife and fork, and cup or mug, the dinner being 
served on paper plates. 

Members of the Class were my willing assistants 
both in cooking and in serving. The promptitude of 
the service was merely owing to intelligent direction. 
The girls — from sixteen to sixty years young — were 
allotted to certain tables. Each one came first to 
the meat table, where Mr. Hume and I were cutting 
the piping hot steaks into suitable portions, received 
the quota of meat, passed on rapidly down the camp- 
fire line where they received in order, a slice of bacon, 
Irish potato, sweet potato, and sweet corn. Every 
one was keyed up to promptness both in passing 
along the line, and in receiving from those who 
served, and in fifty seconds from the time a plate was 
thrust before me for meat, it had received all its 
other accompaniments and was on the table before 
the guest, who, somehow, seemed well informed and 
ready as to what was to be done with it. This de- 
partment of the procedure required neither instruc- 
tion, direction or "keying up." Some plates came 
back for a third — yes, even a third portion, which 
was readily and cheerfully given, for I believe in pro- 
viding plenty. 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 45 

For dessert the Grape Association of Escondido 
sent four boxes of the richest, most luscious and de- 
licious muscat grapes ever grown. These, with 
doughnuts, coffee, tea, cheese, candy and cakes, 
"topped off" the meal to everyone's satisfaction. 
Then, while the "cooks and waiters" ate their meal, 
the rest arranged their seats around the campfire, 
which was now built up to rousing and blazing pro- 
portions, casting its ruddy glare upon the happy, con- 
tented and satisfied faces and bodies of the guests, 
and lighting up into a wierd beauty and charm the 
pepper trees beyond. Then, still in shirt-sleeves and 
wearing my camping-out overalls, I gave an address 
on "Literature in its Relation to Life," after which 
we all went home, feeling that we had come nearer 
to each other, had cemented the ties of new friend- 
ships, and gained a fuller glimpse into the beauty and 
joy of life than we had ever had before. 

A small but beautiful souvenir menu of the occa- 
sion was issued, which was not only a menu, but had 
the following original lines by Miss Bertha Bliss 
Tyler : 

TO GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 

September 27, 1858-1916 
Here's to his fifty-eight years 
Of truth, by which he steers 
His light canoe, 
His happy crew : 
"Row on! Row on!" he cheers! 

Miss Tyler also gave her recipe for champagne, as follows: 
One quart water from fountain of "Living Waters" ; one 
pint Universal Love ; one gill each, Hope, Aspiration, Inspira- 
tion, Lucidity, Individual Freedom. Mix thoroughly. Use 



46 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

after three months, the older the better. Especially desirable 
for New Year Feasts. 

The fame of this dinner spread, and many came 
and asked that it be repeated as they were unable to 
attend; but this did not seem to be wise. In Decem- 
ber, however, the urge was so strong that I consented 
to give an indoor dinner, the chief article on the menu 
to be "Fruit Soup," which I would personally pre- 
pare. Mr. and Mrs. John G. Tyler, the host and 
hostess of the San Joaquin Valley Counties building, 
kindly offered the use of the foyer for the affair, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Fromm, who controlled the din- 
ing concession of the building, allowed us the use of 
the kitchen, with its gas-stove, etc., and also the din- 
ing tables and chairs from the balcony. When the 
evening of Saturday, December 9th, arrived, one 
hundred and twenty people sat down and partook of 
the much-heralded fruit soup, eaten with Grant's 
crackers or bread and butter, and followed with ham, 
covered with a heavy coating of rye-dough and well 
baked, potatoes, coffee, tea, bread and butter, cheese, 
doughnuts, cakes, apples and candy. 

At the request of the guests I fully explained how 
I had made the fruit soup. It was composed of dried 
peaches, pears, nectarines, seedless and seed^^ rai- 
sins, figs and prunes, all generously contributed by 
the San Joaquin Valley Counties Association (by 
Walter Maloy, manager), and fresh apples sliced. 
Every particle of fruit was carefully examined and 
well washed, then soaked over night. It was then 
slowly cooked, mixed, sugar added, and thickened 
with instantaneous tapioca. Oftentimes I use ground 
whole-wheat, barley, cream of wheat, oatmeal, etc., 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 47 

as thickening. It can be served hot or cold, at the 
beginning, end, or middle of a meal; it Is healthful, 
nutritious, delicious, and satisfying, and far better for 
children and adults than a far more expensive meat 
soup. 

Following the dinner I gave an address on The 
Literature of the Aborigines, and told a number of 
Indian folk-lore stories, all of which were well re- 
ceived. Miss Edith Brubaker, the original Califor- 
nia Story-Telling-Girl, who had just returned from a 
tour of the United States, gave an Interesting selec- 
tion, and Mrs. Lola Broderson sang one or two 
songs. 

I was then urged to sing a song, "The Trouba- 
dour," the music of which I had composed many 
years before, and to which words were written by 
Alice Ward Bailey when she introduced the melody 
into her Sagebrush Parson (the first half of 
which novel is largely based upon my life as a Meth- 
odist Missionary in Nevada, in the '80's). This 
song I had sung on "Jack London Day," as it was 
one of which he was very fond. Here are the 
words : 

THE TROUBADOUR 

Reproduced by permission from "The Sagebrush Parson," 
by Alice Ward Bailey. 

Along the shining way there came, 
A Troubadour! A Troubadour! 
As out of darkness shines a flame : 

And in his hand no harp he bore : 
He sang of joy in overflow, 
He sang the pain mankind must know; 
And they who listened to that voice, 
With it did mourn, with it rejoice. 



48 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

But more than this thou broughtest me, 

Troubadour! O Troubadour! 
All that I thought and meant to be, 
Like flooding wave returns once more : 

I take the joy, I dare the pain. 
Content to be myself again: 
Sing on. Sing on, as God hath meant, 
My Heart shall be thy instrument. 

At its close, Mrs. Katherlne Howard, the poet, 
and author of The Book of the Serpent, Eve, 
Candle Flame, Poems, The Little God, etc., etc., 
came forward, made a brief and tender address, and 
then, handing a purse to me, containing dollars, half- 
dollars, quarters, dimes and nickels, which my gen- 
erous friends had spontaneously contributed during 
the progress of the dinner, read the following orig- 
inal lines which she had just composed: 

THE TROUBADOUR 

As I was going from the place 

1 met a little lad — he said — 
"Who is the tall man with the hair 
That hangs down from his face 
Who sang about the troubadour? 

I do not know, I am not sure, 
I think he is that troubadour." 
And then I thought of one of old 
Who played upon a harp of gold, 
A harp that had a thousand strings — 
And — yes — the little lad I told — 
He surely is that troubadour — 
He plays upon the human harps 
Touching their thousand strings. 

There were some ten gallons of the soup spared, 
for, although many of the guests sent back their 




THE ORGAN PAVILION FROM THE OPPOSITE ARCADE 




PATIO OF THE SOLTHERX CALIFORNIA COUNTIES BUILDING 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 49 

plates for a second and even a third helping, I had 
cooked so abundantly that this surplus remained. 
One of the friends took it the next morning to the 
Helping Hand, (a charitable organization supported 
by the private subscriptions of San Diego citizens for 
the assistance of elderly women and men and those 
unable to find work) , and thus gave much pleasure 
to the inmates, by whom it was thoroughly enjoyed. 
There was another interesting outcome of the 
work of the Class that should not be overlooked. 
During my stay in San Francisco I had formed an 
intimate and sweet friendship with Deva Ram Sokul, 
a highly educated Hindoo, who was in the employ of 
the Ridgeway Tea Company. This friendship was 
joyfully continued when we both found ourselves in 
San Diego. In discussing Hindoo religious poets, 
philosophers, etc., the name of Sir Rabindranath Ta- 
gore naturally came up, and I then learned that the 
distinguished Hindoo winner of the Nobel Prize for 
idealistic literature was expected upon the Pacific 
Coast ere long, to begin a course of lectures in the 
United States. I suggested that we invite him to the 
Exposition as our guest. When the generous-hearted 
manager of Hotel del Coronado, Mr. Jno. J. Her- 
nan, learned of our interest in Tagore, he cordially 
co-operated in our plans, offered "half the hotel for 
the poet's entertainment and comfort," and gave a 
dinner to a number of distinguished guests in order 
that they might extend an invitation to Sir Rabindra- 
nath to come to San Diego. One of these guests was 
Admiral Fullam, and he was so impressed with the 
international importance of Tagore's visit to the Uni- 
ted States that he sent a message to the official head 



50 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

of the wireless telegraph system of the U. S. Navy, 
asking that permission be accorded for the forward- 
ing of the invitation by the government's wireless 
free of charge. The reply immediately came, giving 
gracious consent to the sending of the radiograph 
over the Navy's system. Accordingly at the Hotel 
del Coronado dinner, a message was formulated and 
sent direct from the hotel. 

In due time answer came that Sir Rabindranath 
Tagore had received the message on his steamer in 
mid-ocean. An additional message was sent to him 
to be put Into his hands on arrival at Seattle, but it 
was then deemed by his agent, Mr. Jno. B. Pond, un- 
likely that he could accept the Invitation. In the 
meantime great interest had been aroused in San 
Diego, and indeed, all over California, by the pub- 
lication of the radiograph and the announcements 
that Tagore was on his way. In San Diego and at 
the Exposition many requests came for more knowl- 
edge so I delivered ten or a dozen lectures upon the 
poet and his poems and spiritual message in the ball- 
room of the U. S. Grant hotel, at Lemon Grove, in 
the San Joaquin Valley building, New Mexico build- 
ing, Ridgeway's Tea pavilion, etc. Then the demand 
became insistent that Tagore be brought to San 
Diego. The Exposition officials felt they could not 
afford to risk the large fee, no organization in the 
city would attempt It, so finally, the Class, through 
its organizer, called upon the presidents of the 
Women's Clubs and other representative men and 
women of the city, announced that the responsibility 
was assumed and asked their hearty co-operation. 
Mr. Lyman J. Gage, former Secretary of the Treas- 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 51 

ury, generously offered to help meet any deficit, and 
great enthusiasm was aroused when it was announced 
that Katherine Tingley, the official head of the Uni- 
versal Brotherhood and Theosophical Society, of 
Point Loma, and owner of the Iris Theater, had 
kindly offered it free of charge for the purpose of the 
lecture. Many volunteer workers offered to sell 
tickets, and due announcement of the lecture was 
made. On the morning of the opening for sale of 
tickets the agent of the theater reported, by noon, the 
sale of the major portion of the house. The follow- 
ing day scarce a seat was to be had, and when the 
distinguished lecturer appeared it was to as large an 
audience as could be packed into the theater and rep- 
resentative of all the best in San Diego citizenship. 
I had the honor to preside and introduce Sir Rabin- 
dranath Tagore, and few who had the pleasure of 
listening to his impressive lecture on "The Cult of 
Nationalism" will ever forget that dignified person- 
ality, the calm serenity of his every movement, the 
sweet purity of his face, the impressive walk, the 
penetrating, rather high-pitched voice, the simple, 
eloquent fervor of his utterance, and the soulful sig- 
nificance with which his message was charged. 

Lyman J. Gage, in commenting upon the coming 
of such men to America wisely said something that 
America and other countries should act upon. In an 
interview reported in the San Diego Union, of Oc- 
tober 10, 1916, he said: 

I do not think too much emphasis can be placed upon the 
international importance of the visits of such men as the poet 
Tagore to this country. I believe one of the best investments 
the United States could make would be to send to Japan, 



52 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

China, India and other Oriental countries, as well as those of 
Europe, a dozen of twent}'- of our best men, men of power 
and influence in large afiairs and well able to deliver in a 
convincing manner the great lessons of our democracy. 

They should visit all the principal cities and spend a few 
days at each place, getting in touch with the biggest men 
there, studying life and conditions as they exist, and telling of 
our life and conditions. They could be furnished w^ith letters 
of introduction from notable men in every walk of life — in 
art, science and letters — as well as from official quarters, and 
thus they would be well received even"vvhere. Delivering the 
true message of America, they would awaken a keener realiza- 
tion of fraternity, of friendliness, of our desire to be at peace 
with all men. They would provoke a wonderful amount of 
friendly and brotherly feeling toward America and its insti- 
tutions, and awaken a great desire to know more of its men 
of literature, art, science and letters and their viewpoint of 
life. 

The same should be done by other countries in regard to 
us. Japan, China, India and the rest should send their great 
men here. Let us know their ideals and aims, their history 
and their ambitions ; let them give to us their message. The 
silent influence of such contact would be irresistible. Men, 
having heard such messages, would never be the same again. 
Their narrowness, bigotr\% exclusiveness would be under- 
mined and they would gradually or rapidly grow to a larger, 
wider viewpoint, a broader conception of the oneness of all 
mankind, and a friendliness never before known. 

It is not inappropriate here to mention, in connec- 
tion with Tagore's visit, that the Class and its presi- 
dent did not seek to make a monetary profit out of 
the lecture. In no city on the Coast, or the country 
generally, were the charges of admission so low as in 
San Diego, none of the seats (except in a few of the 
boxes), selling for more than a dollar each, thus 
giving to practically everyone the opportunity to see 
and hear the famous Oriental whose message to the 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 53 

Occident it so much needs. The profit that was made 
was largely used to meet the expenses of the Authors' 
Days and pay the balance owing on the photographs, 
etc., donated to the public library. 

To return now to the lectures given to the Class. 

When the course of California Literature lectures 
was completed, I took up a course on Robert Brown- 
ing. After reading many of the lesser poems, a 
fairly comprehensive survey was made of "The Ring 
and the Book." Then I sought to give a full pre- 
sentation of Browning's philosophy of life. "Rabbi 
Ben Ezra," "Saul," "Evelyn Hope," "Prospice," 
"Pisgah-Sights," and especially "Abt Vogler" were 
read and commented upon. When the Browning 
course was completed, the Class still insisted upon 
meeting, so lectures on Tagore, Memory Culture, 
Living the Radiant Life, etc., were given, thus con- 
tinuing activities up to the end of the year. 

Just before the close of the lectures I received the 
following letter. It is so striking and so fully reveals 
what many others partially or wholly expressed, that 
I feel justified in quoting it, especially as it has no 
definite signature : 

Coronado, December 19, 1916. 
Dear Doctor James : 

The official life of our beloved Exposition will soon be 
ended, leaving only beautiful and fragrant memory; but the 
influence on Southern California, and especially on this com- 
munity, v^ho can estimate? "The placing of San Diego on 
the map," valuable as that achievement may be, from a purely 
material point of view, sinks into insignificance when one 
thinks of the uplift received by this community in artistic, 
intellectual, spiritual, and many other lines, which I am cer- 
tain will leave its impress for all time. Many have been the 



54 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

opportunities for improvement and growth presented to the 
thinking people of San Diego and its suburbs, by the Ex- 
position itself and the large number of strong men and women 
brought here under its auspices; but it seems to me that 
among the greatest of these has been the opportunity to lis- 
ten week after week to the Sage of Pasadena. 

My greatest regret is, that some of those who would have 
received the greatest benefit, and whose presence and support 
would have been an inspiration and help to Dr. James, were 
unwilling to overlook the speaker's unconventional, and at 
times far from pleasing forms of expression, being governed 
by their disgusts rather than by their admiration, thus losing 
the pleasure and great profit that fell to the fortunate lot of 
those of us, who were led from week to week into pastures 
new, and beside streams heretofore unknown. Literature, 
Nature and the Spiritual World yielded up their hidden 
treasures under the touch of one w^hose intuitive perceptions, 
and long familiarity with, and careful study of, their secrets, 
made him a choice guide and instructor. The literature of 
California was little known and still less appreciated by many 
of Dr. James's hearers ; especially those from the East, whose 
eyes have been opened to its strength and beauty. "Faithful 
are the wounds of a friend" — even though a little-know^n 
friend — and though loth to do so, I must confess that some- 
times the real friends and admirers of the Sage could not 
help wishing that he might be moved to put up the psalmist's 
petition: "Set a watch O Lord before my mouth; keep the 
door of my lips." With this wish would also come the 
realization of the fact, that even the psalmist's petition would 
hardly avail in the case of a personality which at times when 
in action suggested a combination of Theodore Roosevelt, 
Robert Browning, Billy Sunday and Tagore, with all the 
faults as well as the many and great virtues which such a 
combination would naturally imply. I am sure that in the 
days to come a picture will sometimes come up before the 
writer of a familiar room in the San Joaquin Valley Building 
at the Exposition, and he will hear those well remembered 
words — "This lecture will last about an hour and a quarter 
and all who cannot remain for the whole lecture will please 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 55 

go out now," Intended as they always were to try and teach 
thoughtless people the value of courtesy and consideration for 
others. Their memory will bring a smile to the lips and a 
suggestion of moisture to the eyes. 

The Sage's moral and spiritual teachings, while sometimes 
couched in unusual language, will, I feel certain, tend to en- 
rich and spiritualize practically the lives of many of his 
hearers: for the writer at least felt always that they were 
the heartfelt expression of one who was trying to live up to 
the standard set for us by the Master Himself in the two 
great commandments of love to God and love to our fellow- 
men. This high aim has enabled him to develop a love and 
practical charity broad enough to include not only a noble, 
beautiful character like Mrs. McCrackin, a Jack London, 
but also one who, though gaining some fame, was regarded 
by many as unmoral. 

May the years of Dr. James's life be many and happy and 
may his love long abide in strength; and when comes the 
day when that seemingly tireless frame fails to report for 
duty; when the silver cord is finally loosed and the golden 
bowl broken ; when the Heavenly Father gives that new 
body which pleases Him, may there come with it the full 
realization of what the writer, and I think Dr. James be- 
lieves — that now we are the Sons of God and that the king- 
dom of heaven is indeed within us. 

This is the wish of a little-known but sincere friend 
and admirer of Dr. James. 

This letter, in Its frank kindliness, or kindly frank- 
ness. Is so full of the spirit that I sought to inculcate 
that it seems to me It Is worth far more than a mere 
casual reading: it Is one of those letters that a true 
man or woman will seek to mark, learn, and Inwardly 
digest. 

At the close of the year my work called me away, 
and one might naturally have thought the work of 
the Literature Class would cease. But it had gained 
such an impulse that Miss Bertha Bliss Tyler, its sec- 



56 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

retary, was impelled to lease The White Bungalow, 
where meetings for mutual study and uplift, without 
any formal organization, would be carried on. 

It was my pleasure to dedicate the White Bunga- 
low with a House Blessing Ceremony, which I 
adapted from a simple and primitive ceremonial of 
the Navaho Indians with which I had long been 
familiar. There was a large audience present as the 
accompanying picture shows, and the interest in the 
ceremony was so great that it has resulted in the pub- 
lication of a most handsome House Blessing Cere- 
mony and Guest Book. 

One member of the class was so impressed with 
the ceremony that she wrote the following poem, in 
which the spirit of the Navahos is well caught and 
expressed: 

THE HOUSE DELIGHTFUL* 

Would you know the kind host in the house of delight? 
Do not picture a mansion with columns of might, 

With a garden, where amethyst moss fringes beds 

And where millions of blossoms lift proudly their heads. 
There are mansions, yes, many, as might be portrayed 
With gardens and columns which money has made. 

But the house of delight among these is not found. 

Search you well for a sprinkling of meal o'er the ground. 

Now this brings to your mind little knowledge, I trow, 

So the curtain I'll lift, that this house you may know. 
Come with me to the plains of the west, wild and free, 
Where the blue and the gold of the sky dance in glee. 

Arizona, the house of delight's blessed home ; 

The fair "City Eternal," past whose gates we roam 
Away out to the desert. "Such rude huts," you say, 
"And these wild, heathen Indians, with faces of clay, 



Copyright, 1916, by Ida Ghent Stanford. 



THE CALIFORNIA LITERATURE CLASS 57 

Are the hosts? Is the house of delights but a hut? 

my friend, of what joke have you made us the butt?" 
Sit you down, I'll explain; see that Navaho there? 
His hut rude ? It is founded on song and on prayer. 

He is heathen? God grant that a heathen I be, 

If this home is a heathen abode which we see. 

There was never house builded, with incense as sweet 
As is found in yon hut, kissed by brown, unshod feet. 

From the felling of logs, to the kindling of fire, 
Are these huts sacred kept. They are free from all ire. 
Should a post slip its place and a cross word be spoke 
Soon the whole is a ruin of ashes and smoke. 
All these homes that you see stretched out over the plain 
Are houses delightful, built for love and not gain. 

Where the Medicine Man sprinkles meal from a bowl 
While he chants from the deeps of his innermost soul. 

"To the East, to the North, to the South, to the West, 

1 now scatter this meal that peace here may find rest. 
That this house be delightful, the four posts are blest 
With meal from my bowl, that true love fill each guest 

Who seeks here a shelter from sun or from storm. 

May this house be delightful for children unborn. 
May all who here enter, as friend or as foe. 
Be filled with the Presence of God ere they go." 

Every figure on basket or blanket speaks rare 
All of duty and love. Every weave is a prayer. 

O brave Navaho Indian, come build me a home 

And pray bless with your meal, that Love's peace shall not 
roam. 
And O Navaho Chieftain, come teach me the art 
Of just building for love; that each arrow and dart 

Shall be sent forth all white and all quivering with peace ; 

That my house be delightful ; that love may increase. 

Forgive me for treading where daring fools tread. 

Here the angels step softly, their white wings outspread 
In rich blessings unnumbered, though known to so few, 
In most humble contrition I bov/ before you. 



58 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Arizona, no marvel thy skies are so blue. 

No wonder thj^ atmosphere's fresh as the dew. 

Let us pray that our country, so favored and blest, 
Shall be filled with the Navaho's peace, and his rest. 

Of the work of The White Bungalow much might 
be written, but it would be a little beyond the scope 
of this book. Yet its helpfulness is already assured. 
During a visit made in April, 1917, many men and 
women came to me and spoke of how much it had 
meant to them. Among other expressions came the 
following, with which I must close this already too- 
prolonged chapter : 

LITTLE WHITE BUNGALOW 
By Grace Sherburne Conroe 

Little White Bungalow 

Perched on a crest. 
Viewing the valley, — 

Symbol of rest. 

Strangers have loitered here, 

Friendships have grown, 
Yielding so quickly, to 

Love's undertone. 

Dear little inmate. 

Helpfully kind, 
Serving in gentleness, 

Culturing mind. 

How shall we cherish thee 
Ages to come, 

When He in wisdom 
Bids thee come home. 




CHAPTER III 

THE CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' 
DAYS 

HE following are extracts from some of the 
reports of the Authors' Days published in 
the San Diego papers. These were most 
generous in their contribution of space both 
in announcing the Days, and, afterward, in 
reporting them, and these quotations are given with 
the thought that a hasty reading of them will show 
the wide scope of the literary field these authors have 
covered, and the way their work was presented. 

Mark Twain Day, October 10 

How the genial humorist would have enjoyed seeing our 
gloriously beautiful Exposition! Every nerve of him would 
have thrilled to its dainty exquisiteness. The tower of the 
California building, especially when lit up at night, or when 
the morning sun kisses it into warmth, with the perfect blue 
canopy over it would have reminded him of his own words 
of the great cathedral at Milan or the pyramids floating in 
the blue of the Egyptian sky. 

Mark loved the West in many ways. It made him. It 
gave him his first impulses toward literature. For it he wrote 
his first book, "Innocents Abroad" in the form of newspaper 
letters. His "Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" added to 
his fame and his blue jay story in "A Tramp Abroad" could 
never have been written had he not thoroughly learned the 
habits of the California blue jay. Hence it is appropriate that 
Mark Twain should be honored by our Exposition officials 
and today set apart as Mark Twain Day. 



60 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Bret Harte Day, October 20 

Dr. George Wharton James, the noted lecturer, paid an 
admirable appreciation to Harte's unusual literary gifts in 
providing an unusual epoch not only to California history, 
but to the history of the world. He said : 

"Few California writers have reflected so much glory upon 
their Golden State as did Bret Harte, the first editor of the 
Overland Monthly, the writer of 'The Heathen Chinee,' 
'The Outcasts of Poker Flat,' 'The Luck of Roaring 
Camp,' and one hundred other dialect poems and stories that 
have thrilled, charmed, delighted and amused the world. 

"As a writer of short stories, the master critics of Europe 
place him in the front rank, many of them assigning him a 
place higher than Poe. Even Maupassant is praised by being 
compared with the greater Californian, and to those who 
love clearness in their stories as well as interest, Harte and 
Maupassant cannot be placed in the same class, for the 
French writer depends for much of his interest upon the un- 
clean, immoral and shady side of sex life. Harte was never, 
but once, charged with this, and that episode in his literary 
career is one of the most amusing, though at the time it stirred 
a tempest in a teapot which few Californians of today 
realize. 

"Yet the very story — 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' — for 
which he was attacked, I have read to convent schools, young 
ladies' seminaries and church socials and no one has been of- 
fended, and no one's morals corrupted. It was this same story 
that brought Harte an offer from the staid and serious 'At- 
lantic Monthly' of $10,000 a year if he would write a story 
a month equal to it." 

Harte's dialect poems are world famous, "The Heathen 
Chinee" having received as great applause as did Mark 
Twain's "Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." His "So- 
ciety on the Stanislaus" and "Jim," and "Cecily" ever bring 
applause when read aloud or tears to the eyes when perused 
in silence. Who is there that has not thrilled to his "Dickens 
in Camp," or responded to his arousing and stimulating 
"Reveille," and his "San Francisco" is one of the oftenest 
quoted poems of California. 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 61 

Dr. James then analyzed "The Luck of Roaring Camp" 
and read portions of it. This was followed by the reading 
of "Cecily," and, by request, "San Francisco." 

Mrs. Alice Farnham, contralto, sang charmingly one of 
Harte's poems, "What the Chimney Sang," which has been 
set to music by Gertrude Griswold, the piano accompani- 
ment being played by Mrs. Alice Barnett Price. Miss Helene 
Richards recited two of the best known Harte poems, "The 
Heathen Chinee" and "Ramon, the Drunken Engineer." 

Edwin Markham Day, October 26 

The growing popularity of the California Authors' days, 
now being celebrated at the Exposition, was attested Thurs- 
day afternoon by the enthusiastic assemblage of people which 
gathered in the patio of the Southern Counties building for 
the celebration of the Edwin Markham Day. The program 
was opened with a soprano solo, "Joy of the Morning," words 
by Edwin Markham, music by Harriet Ware, sung by Mrs. 
Charles P. White, and accompanied by Mrs. Price. Mrs. 
White's clear voice, clean-cut phrases and spontaniety of 
feeling, were a delight to all who heard her, while the ac- 
companiment by Mrs. Price was rendered with delicacy and 
unity of feeling. 

Miss Emmeline Lowenstein then read "The Hindu Poet," 
by Edwin Markham. 

This was followed by a musical setting of "The Man with 
a Hoe," sung by Mr. Hart, its composer, and accompanied 
on the piano by George Edwards. Mr. Hart's rendering of 
the Markham masterpiece showed a deep insight and thor- 
ough sympathy, and his music, in its dramatic style, anguished 
tones and unusual intervals, portrayed its spirit. 

Dr. George Wharton James then lectured on the life and 
works of Edwin Markham, beginning his address with an 
appreciation of the preceding number in its faithful musical 
portrayal of the spirit of "The Man with a Hoe." 

He also said : 

"Breathing California's pure air, bright sunshine, odorous 
flowers in nearly every poem he writes ; filled with the spirit 
of California's largeness and freedom; urged by her moun- 



62 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

tains and snowy peaks to higher aspiration and greater purity, 
encouraged to wider and vaster outlook by her immense des- 
erts and great ocean, what wonder that Edwin Markham, 
while world poet, is essentially hailed as a California poet. 

"His first great poem was thought out within her borders, 
and the scenes of many of his lesser and later poems are 
located in the borders of the Golden State. His 'Joy of the 
Hills' is full of memories of his delightful rides over the hills 
and mountains of the northern counties. Its fields, trees, 
flowers, birds, animals, clouds, sunshine, mountains, canyons, 
ravines and foothills were the first books he ever read, and 
for years were the only school he was able to attend. Like 
David, the psalmist, he w^as a 'tender of sheep' in the Suisun 
valley, and one of his first great adventures into the world 
was when he and a companion ventured alone into the woods 
of Mendocino county. Here he was solicited by a vigorous 
looking man to accompany him on a money-making trip. This 
man afterwards proved to be a noted bandit and highway- 
man who afterwards served a term in San Quentin. 

"In turn a student at the State Normal school, a black- 
smith, a searcher for deeper knowledge at the college at Santa 
Rosa, where he became imbued with the deep spiritual ideas 
of Thomas Lake Harris, then a teacher in one of the first 
open-air public schools of California, and finally superintend- 
ent of the Tompkins School of Observation in Oakland, it 
was w^hile in this latter position that his 'Man With a Hoe' 
rang through the world, as a new note in human brotherhood. 
Christ had forcefully sounded the original note two thousand 
years before, but not in all the days since had it been so ef- 
fectively renewed as when Markham localized his poetic and 
forceful powers upon it. 

"This led to his being called East and there he has since 
dwelt. He is one of the few men in this age who have been 
able to make poetry pay. One of the London papers at the 
close of the Boer war paid him $500 for a single poem that 
he wrote overnight, and The Delineator has paid him the 
same sum for a poem of a few stanzas, while the Exposition 
officials in San Francisco gave him $1000 for his poem on 
their great fair." 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 63 

Dr. James' rendering in his own inimitable voice and un- 
derstanding of "Outwitted," "Chant of the Vultures," "Joy 
of the Hills" and "Child Heart," were enthusiastically re- 
ceived. 

Ina Coolbrith Day, November 2 

One of the most interesting celebrations yet observed in the 
series of California Authors' Days at the Exposition was held 
on Thursday afternoon at the Southern Counties building, 
in honor of Ina Coolbrith, crowned poet laureate of Califor- 
nia by Benjamin Ide Wheeler at the Panama-Pacific Interna- 
tional Exposition at San Francisco last year. 

The program was opened by two selections of Ina Cool- 
brith, "The Leaf and the Blade," and "Tomorrow Is Too 
Far Away," recited by Miss Siegenfelder, pupil of the San 
Diego School of Expression, whose excellent work was en- 
thusiastically received by the audience which filled the audi- 
torium. 

This recital was followed by a lecture on Miss Coolbrith 
by Dr. Wharton James, who added to his biographical sketch, 
many interesting personal reminiscences, which showed un- 
usual beauty of character, with also its touch of humor. Dr. 
James said Miss Coolbrith's verse sets the standard par ex- 
cellence for finished work and perfect form for all California 
writers in the future. 

Preceding the final number of the program, "Ode to the 
Nativity," words by Miss Coolbrith and music by Dr. Hum- 
phrey J. Stewart, which was sung by Mrs. Alfreda Beatty 
Allen, Dr. Stewart spoke of its being written in an hour, 
twenty years ago, for the Christmas supplement to the San 
Francisco Examiner. Mrs. Allen, in her clear, sweet, sym- 
pathetic voice, gave a rich interpretation of this exquisite 
melody, in its gentle, steady movement, from its soft, tender 
opening phrases, to its triumphant close, while Dr. Stewart 
as composer-accompanist was its life-giving center. 

Dr. James also rendered, by special request, a tuneful little 
melody of his own composition, to Miss Coolbrith's exquisite 
poem, "In Blossom Time," and then spoke of his great grati- 
fication at being able to announce that the distinguished and 
masterly American composer, Mrs. Amy Beach, had just 



64 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

written a musical setting for this same poem, and also for 
Miss Coolbrith's "Meadow Larks." 

George Sterling Day, November 9 

An assemblage of nearly 500 people gathered in the audi- 
torium to do honor to George Sterling, visiting poet for the 
day. On the platform were the chairman, Mrs. E. D. Mil- 
ler, president of the San Diego Club, Dr. George Wharton 
James, George Sterling and Harold Bell Wright. 

The program opened with a selection, "The Builders," by 
George Sterling, recited with an unusually clear voice and 
fine feeling by Miss Marion Jennings, pupil of the San Diego 
School of Expression. 

Dr. James then lectured on the life, work and literary 
standard of the guest of honor, placing George Sterling with 
the master poets of the world: Dante, Goethe and Browning. 
Dr. James' readings from Mr. Sterling's "Testimony of the 
Suns," and his "War Lords," "Two Prayers," and "Sonnet 
to Ambrose Bierce," were enthusiastically received by the 
large, appreciative audience. 

Then followed a vocal solo: "Mediatrix," words by Mr. 
Sterling, music by Lawrence Zenda, sung by Mrs. Minty, 
mezzo-sopranno, with an accompaniment of taste and feeling 
by Mrs. Amy Vincent. Mrs. Minty's full, sustained tones 
richly interpreted the poet's exquisite tribute to music. 

Mrs. Miller than graciously presented Mr. Sterling, as 
friend, not stranger, since Dr. James' lecture. Mr. Sterling 
talked not of himself, but gave many personal reminiscences 
of Joaquin Miller, Charles Warren Stoddard, Jack London 
and Ambrose Bierce. 

After a "Welcome and God Speed," by Harold Bell 
Wright, the meeting then adjourned to the woman's head- 
quarters in the California State building, where a tea-recep- 
tion was held for Harold Bell Wright and George Sterling. 

Joaquin Miller Day, November 16 

The largest, and so far the most attractive celebration 
yet held in the series of California Authors' days at the Ex- 
position, was that in honor of Joaquin Miller. In antici- 



r% 




THE MONTEZUMA GARDENS, TERGOLA, AND CAEIFORNIA TOWER 




GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 

— Photo by Savoy Studio, San Diego. 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 65 

pation of a large audience the event was announced for the 
organ pavilion, and fully 1500 people assembled to do honor 
to the Poet of the Sierras. 

Miss Juanita Miller, daughter of the poet, from Oakland, 
was present as guest of honor, conducting a garland dance, 
crowning the large bust of Joaquin Miller for the public 
library. Mrs. Stevens, and Mr. Winfred Stevens of Los 
Angeles, lifelong friends of the Joaquin Miller family, were 
also present in honor of the day. 

The program opened with the dignified movement of "Co- 
lumbus" (Carlos Troyer), played by Tommasino's band in a 
most effective manner, the arrangement having been made 
especially for this occasion by Tommasino. 

This was followed by two Joaquin Miller poems, "The 
Soldier Tramp," and "The People's Song of Peace," recited 
with sympathy and ease by Mr. Loren Reed, pupil of the 
San Diego School of Expression. 

Joaquin Miller's great poem "Columbus," set to music 
by Carlos Troyer of San Francisco, was sung by Dean Blake, 
accompanied by Dr. Stewart on the organ, and was one of 
the great hits of the program. 

Dr. James then lectured on Joaquin Miller, "poet of the 
West," "poet of the Sierras," "poet of the mining camps," 
"poet of peace." He mentioned briefly the poet's popular 
plays: "The Danites," "The Argonauts," and "The Days of 
'49"; spoke of his glorification of the soldier, never of war; 
his belief in the individuality of man, the fatherhood of God, 
and death as a transition to more glorified life; his humor, 
illustrated by the following sign on his premises, "The 
Hights," Oakland : "Nothing to see up here except down 
yonder;" paid tribute to Carlos Troyer of San Francisco, 
composer of music to "Columbus;" and ended by reading, 
with tremendous conception and expression the poet's master- 
piece, "Columbus," the finest national poem, according to 
Lord Tennyson, ever written in any language. 

Then followed the characteristic feature of the day — the 
garland dance, crowning the large bust of Joaquin Miller for 
the public library, which stood in the center of the platform 
on a table draped with an American flag. The flowers, in 



66 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

nile green, red, blue, yellow and violet, were represented by 
Miss Juanita Miller, Miss Margaret Chatterson, Mrs. Ste- 
vens of Los Angeles, Miss Lois Gibson, and Miss Ruby Gray. 
The bees were represented by Mr. Stevens of Los Angeles, 
Mr. Russel, Mr. Lubin, Mr. Dib, and Mr. Loren Reed. 
The accompaniment on the piano was played by Miss Bertha 
Bliss Tyler. 

Fred Emerson Brooks Day, November 23 

In the course of his address on Fred Emerson Brooks, 
given to an audience that packed the Auditorium of the 
Southern California Counties building to its fullest capacity, 
Dr. George Wharton James said : 

"Born in Waverly, N. Y., Brooks came to California in 
1873, and three years later he was a member of the famous 
California Theatre Company, under John McCullough. 
Soon thereafter he made his first noted success. He was in- 
strumental in putting Gilbert and Sullivan's comic opera 
'Pinafore' on the stage of the old San Francisco Tivoli, tak- 
ing the exacting part of the admiral. For this he wrote some 
thirty original extra stanzas, adapted to local conditions and 
full of local hits. The opera became so popular that it ran 
for twelve consecutive weeks, a thing hitherto unknown in 
San Francisco. 

"Brooks then w^ent to Arizona to start a Tivoli of his own, 
but found the towns with too small populations to support 
anything of the kind. But, on July 4, 1879, I think it was, 
the people of Tombstone asked him to write and deliver a 
patriotic poem. Tom Fitch, the silver-tongued, was orator 
of the occasion, but Brooks' poem made such a sensation that 
the following year he was asked to deliver it at the Mechan- 
ics' Pavilion in San Francisco. His magnificent deliver}" on 
this occasion so carried away the audience that it also settled 
Brooks in the determination that had been growing in him 
to pass his life in literature and the delivery of his own poems. 

"From that day to this, he has been the poet for Fourth 
of July or Memorial Day celebrations every year either in 
New York City or San Francisco. Three times — once in 
Boston, once in Los Angeles and once in San Francisco — he 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 67 

has been the poet of the Grand Army of the Republic — the 
only public poet they ever have had. 

Brooks' power lies not only in reaching the hearts of his 
hearers by his sentiments, which are always human, inspiring 
and elevated, but in his wonderfully dramatic power of ex- 
pression. He is a born actor ; his face reveals every inner 
emotion, and he has the rare power of communicating to his 
audiences all that he himself feels. 

"One of his great poems is 'Sherman's March.' This he 
wrote at the especial request of General Sherman, and he 
delivered it on Memorial Day at the Metropolitan opera 
house. New York, in 1890, before a vast assemblage. On 
August 11, 1891, he gave the same poem at the G. A. R. 
reunion. In this poem a blind soldier is represented as search- 
ing for General Sherman. Accidentally he bumps into the 
general unbeknown, and supposes he is merely a comrade of 
the ranks. Whereupon he gives the history and reason for 
the march, with its results, just as General Sherman wished 
the country to know and understand. 

"At the 1891 recital General Sherman sat on the platform, 
and the poet, in dramatic representation of his subject, the 
blind soldier, stumbling upon the general, felt of his buttons 
and actually made him perform the very part the poem as- 
sumes he did. On the platform sat hundreds of generals, 
officers and notable men. There was scarcely a dry eye in 
the room when the recital ended, and the applause was tre- 
mendous. 

"After Sherman's death, at the memorial service held for 
him, Brooks was wired for to come and give the same poem, 
which thrilled the assembled thousands to tears and cheers. 

"Brooks has written three volumes of poems — 'Old Ace, 
and Other Poems,' 'Pickett's Charge,' 'The Gravedigger' — 
and a volume of 'Cream Toasts.' He is of the James 
Whitcomb Riley type, full of homely thoughts, quaintly ex- 
pressed, and with a genuine, warm, rollicking, humane hu- 
mor that delights all who come in contact with him. San 
Diego may well consider itself fortunate in that Mr. Brooks 
was secured for its Author's Day. Recently the people 
of Oakland and San Francisco, at the magnificent Hotel 



68 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Oakland, and again in the St. Francis in San Francisco, ten- 
dered him two of the largest public receptions ever held, and 
all the distinguished men and women of the two great cities 
of the ba}' met to do him honor." 

Mr. Brooks's own recital so captured his audience that he 
was compelled to give ten or a dozen more complete pro- 
grams ere he left San Diego : Three at the New Mexico 
building, one in the U. S. Grant ballroom, one at the First 
M. E. Church, one at the Unitarian Church, one each at the 
San Diego and Coronado High Schools, and several private 
recitals. Several banquets and dinners were given in his 
honor, and no entertainer ever came to San Diego and so 
thoroughly won his way into the hearts of the people as did 
Fred Emerson Brooks. He was entertained by the manager 
of Hotel del Coronado, Mr. John J. Hernan, and in San 
Diego by Mrs. Jacob Kaufmann. 

John Vance Cheney Day, November 30 

John Vance Cheney Day was celebrated in the Southern 
Counties building, November 30, Thanksgiving Day. 

The program was opened with two solos by Miss Grace 
Cox, mezzo-soprano, "The Day Is Gone," and "The Time 
of Roses," words by Mr. Cheney, music by Margaret Lang, 
and Percy Thorpe, the music of the latter being especially 
effective, and well rendered by Miss Cox. 

Miss Julia Currier then recited three characteristic poems 
of Mr. Cheney, "Abraham Lincoln," "The Way to Learn," 
and "The Song of the Country Lass." 

Mr. Cheney then addressed the audience, telling of the 
motive for his reply to Markham's "The Man with the 
Hoe," which, incidentally, w^as the $400 in sight, and be- 
cause he differed with the philosophy of Markham, a fact 
which Mr. Markham knew, and between whom the friend- 
liest relations existed. Mr. Cheney gave personal reminis- 
cences of Edmund Clarence Stedman, whom he considered 
America's keenest critic since Lowell; Thomas Bailey Aid- 
rich, his only old contemporary^ now living ; Henr}'- Ward 
Beecher, a most compelling and magnificent human being, be- 
cause of his unusual eye, and his unequaled power of utter- 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 69 

ance; Matthew Arnold, whom the American public did not 
favor because he said there was a crack in everything God 
made; Herbert Spencer, with whom he had little in com- 
mon; Joaquin Miller, the nearest born poet we have ever 
raised, except Edgar Allen Poe; to all of which address a 
most interested audience gave close attention and hearty ap- 
plause. 

A feature of the program was the singing of a Thanks- 
giving song by the audience, words and melody by Miss Ber- 
tha Bliss Tyler, harmonization and piano accompaniment by 
Dr. James, the words being presented to the audience in 
Thanksgiving souvenirs. 

Dr. James then gave a lecture on the life and works of 
Mr. Cheney, speaking of his thrilling love of nature, and his 
wonderful power of arrangement of sounds, which last abil- 
ity was doubtless due to his thorough musical training. 

Jack London Day, December 7 

Jack London Day was celebrated on Thursday at the 
Southern Counties building, with Mrs. Adele M. Outcalt, 
president of the College Woman's Club, acting as chairman. 
The opening number was a soprano solo, in keeping with 
the memorial to Mr. London, "The Cry to Azrael," from 
the Arabian Cycle, "The Heart of Farazda," words by Olive 
M. Long, music by Malcolm Dana McMillan, sung by Mrs. 
Lola Broderson. Mrs. Broderson's conception of the selec- 
tion was dramatic throughout. Miss Ethel Widener's ac- 
companiment was artistic and sympathetic. 

Mrs. Outcalt introduced Dr. James, who gave a loving, 
just appreciation of the great merits of Jack London's life 
and work, claiming for him absolute sincerity of purpose, as 
a master student of the laws of evolution and economics, the 
whole motive of "The Call of the Wild," being the reversion 
to type discussed by Herbert Spencer, and its antitheses, 
"White Fang," which showed the power of love to repress 
the lower instincts. Dr. James referred at length to his 
biography, from his birth near Oakland, till his death on his 
Glen Ellen ranch on November 22 ; to his literary aspirations 
and successes, and to the undoubted place he has won for 
himself in American literature. 



70 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Josephine Clifford McCrackin Day, December 14 

Josephine Clifford McCrackin Day was celebrated at the 
Southern Counties building on Thursday, beginning at 2 :30 
p. m. with a tea and reception to Mrs. McCrackin of Santa 
Cruz, guest of honor, members of the San Diego Woman's 
Club, acting as hostesses to the large gathering assembled 
to welcome Mrs. McCrackin. 

The program was opened by Miss Jennie Herrman, li- 
brarian of the San Diego County Library, who also gave per- 
sonal reminiscences of an acquaintanceship with Mrs. Mc- 
Crackin in Santa Cruz. 

Hugh J. Baldwin, who was to have spoken on the hu- 
mane work of Mrs. McCrackin, being absent. Dr. George 
Wharton James referred briefly to her fondness for animals, 
her organizing a Society for the Protection of Song Birds 
in 1901, and of her being vice-president of the State Audubon 
Society. 

Mrs. McCrackin then addressed the audience, speaking of 
her gratification at the honor conferred upon her by the Press 
Club, at the audience, and the members of Dr. James' litera- 
ture class ; that she lived in the Santa Cruz mountains for 24 
years; had made pets of the wild birds, mocking birds and 
quail. She then gave reminiscences of Ambrose Bierce, Her- 
man Scheffauer, Dr. Doyle, George Sterling and Edwin 
Markham, all of whom w^ere frequent visitors at the home 
of Mr. and Mrs. McCrackin at Santa Cruz. Mrs. Mc- 
Crackin then referred to the devastation of their home by 
the forest fires; of her photograph taken by Bierce in the 
ruins ; and closed w^ith expressed desire for continued faith- 
fulness to the California she so much loved. 

Dr. James gave the biographical facts of Mrs. McCrack- 
in's life, from her birth in Germany; of her father as lieu- 
tenant of the army in the battle of Waterloo, fighting with 
Wellington ; of her father coming to the United States and 
settling in St. Louis, where the young girl met Lieutenant 
Clifford, w^hom she married ; of her crossing the plains into 
New Mexico; of the perils of travel among the Apache In- 
dians; of the incidents connected with Toby, her pet white 
horse, the favorite of all the officers of the army; of her 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 71 

tragic life with Lieutenant Clifford and her final escape, 
when she came to San Francisco and became one of the 
coterie on the Overland Monthly, when she began to 
write in behalf of the preservation of the redwoods 
and with others secured from the Legislature an 
appropriation of $250,000 to purchase the State 
National Redwood Park; of her short, but happy, life 
with Mr. McCrackin, leading legislator of Arizona; of his 
death and her return to Santa Cruz, where she became re- 
porter on a Santa Cruz newspaper at a pitiably small in- 
come, preferring the life of independence to dependence upon 
relatives ; and closed with a fitting tribute to her bravery, un- 
faltering courage and her Christian sweetness and cheerful- 
ness. 

Harold Bell Wright Day, December 21 

Harold Bell Wright really had two Days at the Exposi- 
tion. Having to be in San Diego on the business of seeing the 
premier of his cinema of "The Eyes of the World," on No- 
vember 30, the ladies of the Exposition Board wished to do 
him honor. As this, too, was the day set apart for George 
Sterling, the Exposition officials tendered both novelist and 
poet a dinner at the Cristobal Cafe. Then, as Sterling was 
the author set apart for consideration on that day, Mr. 
Wright graciously devoted his afternoon to honoring his 
poet friend, after which both were given a reception by the 
Ladies' Board. On this occasion, however, on December 21, 
the literary exercises were devoted to Harold Bell Wright. 
A crowded house showed the interest aroused in his work and 
an eager desire to know more of the man who is the writer 
of the biggest selling novels ever written. Dr. George Whar- 
ton James delivered the address on Mr. Wright and his 
work. He called attention to the fact that on the occasion 
of Harold Bell Wright's appearance on George Sterling Day, 
and the dinner given at the Cristobal Cafe, this Exposition 
honor was simultaneous with the first showing in this country 
at the Cabrillo Theater of the first cinema production of one 
of his series of books, "The Eyes of the World." The ad- 
dress teemed with interesting facts about Mr. Wright's life, 
from his birth in 1872 at Rome, Oneida County, New York; 



72 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

his teaching in a Christian College in Ohio, and later enter- 
ing the ministry and going into Southern Missouri, where 
he wrote his "Shepherd of the Hills," in which a practical re- 
ligion was demonstrated ; of his marriage at Pittsburg, Kas.^ 
where "That Printer of Udell's" was written; of his failure 
in health, when he came to California and became minister 
of the Christian Church at Redlands 

Then his health failed and his physician urged him to seek 
a more arid region in which to live. This led to his going 
into the Imperial Valley, where, in an arrow-weed house, 
built with his own hands, he wrote "The Calling of Dan 
Matthews." Here, too, he gathered the material for, and 
wrote "Winning of Barbara Worth," a book which brought 
international fame to the Imperial Valley, and his "Eyes of 
the World," which now in pictorial form is being presented 
to millions of people throughout the country. 

"The Eyes of the World" has had a sale of more than a 
million copies. Publishers estimate five readers of a book to 
each sale. Estimating at this ratio, and calling Los Angeles 
county a round million in population, it would seem that in 
that one county alone, some 50,000 people have read "The 
Eyes of the World." Figuring Southern California's popula- 
tion at 1,500,000, there are 70,000 in that portion of the 
State, and in California 150,000 readers. 

The figures for the eight books of Harold Bell Wright 
are still more staggering. These include "The Shepherd of 
the Hills," "The Calling of Dan Matthews," "The Winning 
of Barbara Worth," "That Printer of Udell's," and "Their 
Yesterdays." The total sales of these books have passed the 
eight million mark. At the publishers' ratio this means an 
amazing total of 40,000,000 readers in the United States, or, 
as nearly as can be expressed in figures, one person out of 
every two and a half in the country has read one of these 
books. This means for San Diego county 60,000. 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Day, December 26 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Day was celebrated in the South- 
ern Counties building j-esterday. Tea, generously donated 
by the Ridgeway Company, was served in the blue room. 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 73 

Following the tea, a recital was given by Mrs. Sibylsammis 
MacDermid, dramatic soprano, of Chicago, who gave, in 
opening the aria, Mazetts' valse song, "As Through the 
Streets," from "La Boheme." Mrs. MacDermid's work 
showed remarkable color, vivacity, spontaniety, the mark of 
genius and training. Her notes were round and full; her 
voice, rich, sweet and powerful, with exceptionally clear, 
high tones; while her enunciation was faultless. This aria 
was followed by an encore, a lullaby by Gertrude Ross, sung 
w^ith exquisite sweetness. Mrs. MacDermid than sang a 
group of songs, written by her husband, a composer of note, 
James G. MacDermid, also "The House o'Dream," 
written by Kendall Banning, and set to music by Mrs. Mac- 
Dermid for John McCormack, w^hich was one of 30 selected 
out of 700 for consideration, and was the only one selected 
from the 30. 

Mrs. MacDermid's long, tapering notes in this number, 
were of great charm. The second of the group was "Char- 
ity," words by Emily Dickinson, beginning: "If I can stop 
one heart from breaking, I shall not have lived in vain." 
This selection gave opportunity for the use of low, rich 
tones, and delicate portamento. The third song was "If I 
Knew You and You Knew Me," words by Nixon Water- 
man whose marked rythm was effectively sung by Mrs. Mac- 
Dermid. Mention is fittingly made of the excellent accom- 
panying of Miss Childs, of Thearle's music store. 

The meeting was then adjourned to the auditorium, and 
the Rose Hartwick Thorpe program was opened with dra- 
mation rendition of "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight," 
given by Miss Emmeline Lowenstein, with a piano accom- 
paniment by Miss Bertha Bliss Tyler. Much credit is due 
Miss Lowenstein for her excellent rendering of this difficult 
form of recitation. 

Dr. James then lectured on the author of "Curfew Shall 
Not Ring Tonight," the popular ballad translated into every 
tongue of civilized countries. Dr. James referred to the fact 
that this far-famed poem was not written by a master of liter- 
ature, not by one whose fame was made, but by a school girl, 
who, having read the English story in an old Peterson's mag- 



74 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

azine, of April 11, 1867, versified it at the expense of her 
school lessons ; of its later publication in a newspaper, and its 
consequent popularity; its cop_vright, unconsciously to its 
author, taken by a Boston publishing firm, and Mrs. Thorpe 
receiving nothing in royalties. 

Dr. James gave a brief but exceedingly entertaining bio- 
graphical sketch of the author. Rose Hartwick, of her birth 
in Indiana ; father's loss of money through signing a note of a 
friend, when the family moved to Kansas, suffering from 
drought; then moving to Michigan, w^here, through constant 
misfortune, the future author's library w^as limited to two 
books, besides the Bible ; a dictionary, and a copy of Byron, 
which w^ere studied diligently ; of the writing and later pub- 
lication of "Curfew" in "The Detroit Commercial" ; of her 
marriage, life in Grand Rapids, in Texas, where other poems 
were written, and of her arrival in California, on account 
of ill health. 

Other of Mrs. Thorpe's w^orks were read and commented 
upon, and great interest was aroused when it was shown 
that she had written many novels for children, as well as the 
poems that gained and added to her fame. 

The chairman then called upon Mrs. Thorpe, who gave 
a short address, speaking of her appreciation of the honor 
of a day set apart to her; of her 30 years' residence in San 
Diego ; of her being honored at the Chicago Exposition, the 
San Francisco Exposition, but her greatest appreciation was 
of the honor conferred upon her by the San Diego Exposition, 
because, said she, "This is my home ; and you are my friends." 

The Day following the Rose Hartwick Thorpe 
Day was devoted to the authors of San Diego. The 
poems and other selections chosen for that day were 
so numerous that not only was a long afternoon oc- 
cupied, but it was essential to continue the reading 
until the following Sunday afternoon, when the pro- 
gram was completed. The poems, etc., read occupy 
the body of this book, hence no comment upon them 
is here needed. 



CALIFORNIA AUTHORS' DAYS 75 

December 28 was devoted to myself, and called 
George Wharton James Day. To me it was a great 
honor and one which I fully appreciated. So much 
was said by my good friends that I cannot, in very 
modesty, give any report of the Day myself. Ac- 
cordingly I have asked Miss Bertha Bliss Tyler, the 
efficient secretary of the Literature Class, to prepare 
the account, in which a brief report of the exercises 
of the Day are given, together with such other mat- 
ter as she deems appropriate. 



CHAPTER IV 

THE LITERATURE OF SAN 
DIEGO 




EFORE presenting the poems and other 
writings of San Diego writers read on San 
Diego Authors' Day at the Exposition, it is 
well that we recall briefly a few, at least, of 
San Diego's notable writers of the past. It 
is possible that some of the most important letters of 
the Spanish discoverers, as well as of the early Fran- 
ciscan friars, were written on, or near the bay of 
San Diego. And we know surely that some of the 
Governors' reports were penned in this city of the 
patron saint of Spain. Whether James O. Pattie 
wrote any of his notable memoirs in San Diego we 
do not know, but they contain many memorable 
passages of unforgettable events that transpired here. 
Here, too, in the early days of American occu- 
pancy, came Lieut. George H. Derby, known to the 
world of humor and letters as John Phoenix and 
Squibob. His Squibob papers, and especially his 
Phoenixiana, are regarded as worthy of high place 
in early American humor and only a few years ago 
John Kendricks Bangs wrote the introduction for a 
new edition of the latter work, which, on publication, 
found a large and ready sale. 

Some of Joaquin Miller's poems were written 
here, for during boom days he spent many months 
here, as did also Harr Wagner and Madge Morris, 



LITERATURE OF SAN DIEGO 77 

both of whose writings graced the pages of The 
Golden Era while it was being published in San 
Diego. Harr, for many years, has been the editor 
of the Western Journal of Education, as well as the 
author of several noteworthy short stories, while his 
wife, Mrs. Madge Morris Wagner, has just pub- 
lished a volume of her complete works, in which are 
some of the gems of California literature. 

Here, too, in boom days, dwelt and wrote Theo- 
dore S. Van Dyke, whose poetical prose book South- 
ern California has long been the inspiration for 
many writers, and whose Millionaires of a Day gives 
a vivid picture of the San Diego days when fortunes 
were made in one day and lost the next. Van Dyke's 
books were largely quoted from by Charles Dudley 
Warner, when he came and was so entranced by the 
newer-developed and feminine half of California 
that he wrote Our Italy. Another writer for the 
great Harpers was Charles Nordhoff, whose books 
used to be standards for those seeking information 
on California, or Peninsula California, and who 
lived the last years of his life at Coronado. On the 
island, too, Robert Brewster Stanton came to re- 
cuperate from the hardships of his trips down the 
perilous canyons of the Colorado River, and there 
he wrote his thrilling accounts of his two trips, one 
of which appeared in the Cosmopolitan Magazine, 
and the other in the published translations of the 
learned Engineer's Society to which he belonged. 

Another of the noted, indeed world-famed au- 
thors of San Diego, is Dr. P. C. Remondino. Born 
in Turin, Italy, a physician in the Franco-Prussian 
War, he came early to San Diego and identified him- 



78 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

self with all its forward movements. His Medi- 
terranean Shores of Southern California has ever 
been regarded as the standard work on climatology 
for this region. Here, too, he wrote his famous book 
on Circumcision which is as well known in Europe 
as in the United States. Even now, though his years 
are piling up rapidly, Dr. Remondino is more am- 
bitious than ever, for he has been devoting all his 
time and attention during the past years to the most 
extensive and comprehensive History of Medicine 
ever attempted. When completed it will occupy fully 
fifty large volumes and be the relied-upon encyclo- 
pedia upon this wide and many-phased subject. 

A novelist of world-repute once lived for awhile 
in El Cajon Valley, one of San Diego's suburbs. It 
was soon after she had written Ships That Pass in 
the Night that Beatrice Harraden came to San Diego 
in search of health and rest. She wrote two books 
here, one of which, Two Healthseekers in Southern 
California showed us ourselves as others see us so 
forcefully that perhaps I should have been wise not 
to mention it in this connection. 

Yet Ford Carpenter, the wise and learned weather 
observer, who lived for many years in San Diego, 
wrote a scientific and at the same time interesting and 
informing book as to the Climate of San Diego, 
which helps to explain the fact that San Diego has 
the most equable climate, winter and summer, found 
on the American continent or in Europe. 

Nor should it be forgotten that William E. 
Smythe, one of the pioneers in the advocacy of the 
great work of reclaiming the arid west by means of 
irrigation — the work to be done on a large scale by 



LITERATURE OF SAN DIEGO 79 

the U. S. Government — made his home in San Diego, 
and here prepared the second edition of his famous 
book, The Conquest of Arid America, and wrote 
his Constructive Democracy, as well as his His- 
tory of San Diego, which for years to come will be 
the reference book on this subject for all who wish to 
know the early history of the city. 

And in San Diego to-day reside a great poet and 
a great novelist. John Vance Cheney, in whose 
honor one of the California Authors' Days was set 
apart, has long made this his place of residence, and 
from San Diego will be given, undoubtedly, that final 
revision of his poems that has occupied and will con- 
tinue to occupy his attention so long as he lives. On 
Grossmont, too, attracted by the incomparable 
charms that had allured Schumann-Heink and Carrie 
Jacobs Bond to build their homes there, Owen Wister 
has built a home, where we hope that, some day, he 
will give to the world another Virginian. 

Nor can it be forgotten that another of the poets 
in whom the whole world is interested, Mrs. Rose 
Hartwick Thorpe, and who also had an Author's 
Day at the Exposition, has resided in San Diego for 
over two decades. 

This sketch makes no claim to be a complete his- 
tory of San Diego's men and women of literature. I 
have written merely from memory, with the aim of 
suggesting that San Diego has an honored literary 
history; that it is conducive to literary and artistic 
expression, hence it was to be expected that, when 
called upon, the writers of the San Diego of today 
would respond with quite a roster of interesting and 
creditable productions. 




CHAPTER V 

THE SAN DIEGO WRITERS AND 
THEIR WORKS; WITH BIO- 
GRAPHICAL SKETCHES 

E NOW come to the consideration of the 
special work of the writers of San Diego, 
that led to the preparation of this volume. 
When the presentation of their poems and 
other writings was made in the lecture series 
on California Literature, many well-read auditors 
expressed their surprise and high appreciation of the 
general excellence of the representative selections 
chosen for reading. The same expressions were re- 
peated on the "Day" set apart for honoring the San 
Diego writers. In addition, a large number of the 
auditors voiced their desire that the selections read 
be gathered into book form, together with the history 
of the Literature Class, thus forming a souvenir or 
memorial volume of one phase of the educative, 
literary and altruistic work of the Exposition. 

The work of each writer is preceded, where it was 
possible to secure it, with a brief biographical sketch. 
Where reference was made to work that is too ex- 
tensive to quote from, the biographical sketch alone 
is given. 

I make no claim that all the verses presented are 
great poetry, though some of them, and the stories, 
will bear full comparison with much that passes the 
judgment of the editors and critics. But I have not 




PATIO AT SOUTHEAST CORNER OF SCIENCE AND 
EDUCATION BUILDING 




THE ARCADE. UNITED STATES BUILDING 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 81 

attempted to be too critical. In judging the work 
of unpretentious writers one does not need to be so 
severe and strict as when he scans the work of those 
who make literature their profession. I have kept 
before me, however, certain standards that I deem 
of importance in all work, whether done by profes- 
sional or amateur. These are, first, the possession 
of the true urge of the writer — the something to say, 
either of beauty, uplift, warning, inspiration, or 
prophecy, for all may be couched in such form as 
makes true, pure literature ; second, the possession of 
the true spirit in that one feels the power of his mes- 
sage, or its beauty, whether It makes any appeal to 
me, personally, or not; third, that it be given in 
humility and thanksgiving for the privilege, rather 
than in vanity for self-glorification; fourth, that it 
show forth conscious endeavor towards perfection In 
expression, for lazy, careless, slovenly, or wilfully Ig- 
norant work should never be tolerated. 

I have contended, always, that I could not afford 
to lose the sight of one glorious cloud, floating in the 
blue sea of the heavens, though clouds are to be seen 
by the million; I cannot afford to miss one song of 
meadow-lark, thrush, linnet, sky-lark, nightingale, 
or mocking-bird, though one may hear them every 
hour of the day or night; I cannot afford to lose one 
violet, rose, poppy or other flower that comes before 
my eyes though there are countless millions of them; 
I cannot afford to lose one smile, one kind word, one 
beautiful or helpful thought though I may be receiv- 
ing them every hour of the day. Hence, while the 
poems I read, and that are here presented, do not 
lay claim to be the works of genius, of power, or of 



82 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

greatness, they are all worth while, in that I believe 
them to be sincere, earnest, humble and true desires 
toward worthy expression of things worth thinking 
and saying. 

H, Austin Adams 

One of the literary men of San Diego County of whom its citizens 
are proud is H. Austin Adams, colloquially known as "The Sage of 
La Jolla." He has written half a dozen plays (including "The 
Landslide," "The Bird Cage," "The Acid Test," and "Lobster 
Salad"), which have been produced with popular success in San 
Diego and Los Angeles. 

"God & Company" was taken by Marie Tempest and produced 
on Broadway by the New York Stage Society; it scored a triumph. 
Clayton Hamilton, the eminent critic, wrote of this play: "If it had 
been written by a Russian, or a Hungarian, or a Pole, it would 
already be hailed by the women's clubs as a work of genius. No 
words can convey the sardonic power of this play. It is the sort of 
play that America has always been waiting for, 

" 'Ception Shoals," Mr. Adams' latest play, was taken by the 
great actress Nazimova for production in New York, where it has 
been running for months, a great success. 

"The Bird Cage" was taken for the Criterion Theatre, Picadilly, 
London. 

Mr. Adams is at work on other plays dealing with certain char- 
acteristic phases of American life of today. Leading New York 
managers have asked Adams to furnish plays for the "stars" under 
their management; and critics like Clayton Hamilton, Augustus 
Thomas, Adolph Klauber, and others, already look upon him as a 
dramatist of commanding power, who must shortly achieve a fore- 
most rank. 

Robert H, Asher 

A SAN DIEGO MYSTERY 
(a ballade) 
'Tis New Year's Day and the soft winds blow, 

The streets are alive with merry cheer — 
Low overhead in the sunset glow 

White-winged aeros are hovering near. 

Where is the woe and withering fear, 

The blizzard's howl and the wind's wild spree, 

Old Jack Frost and his hideous leer — 

Where then, Oh, where, may our Winter be? 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 83 

Where is Our Winter of flying snow, 

The emptying cellar of yester-year 
When dark days come and dark days go 

For many a week and fortnight drear? 

Vainly I've searched over mountain and mere, 
Down thro' the valleys and down to the sea — 

In vain did I wander and peek and peer, 

Where, then. Oh, where, may our Winter be? 

Where is the Winter we once did know ; 

The ice-bound gardens barren and sere — 
Vanished their beauty, their pride laid low, 

Barren and empty, forbidding, austere ? 

Where is the mitt and the close-covered ear. 
The double-glassed window and leafless tree, 

The bitter cold and the quick-frozen tear, 

Where, then. Oh, where, may our Winter be? 

ENVOY 

Prince : I've wandered both far and near. 

The land is filled with joy and glee. 
Our Winter has gone — he is not here — 

Where then. Oh, where, may our Winter be? 

"back east!" 

Adaline Bailhache 

Adaline Bailhache was born in New York City. Her childhood 
and girlhood were spent in Illinois, Wisconsin and New Mexico 
before coming to California, where she has been living the past 
twenty years in San Diego and Coronado. 

She was educated at an Episcopalian church school in Wisconsin 
and at Bethany College, Topeka, Kansas. 

Her grandfather, John Bailhache, a native of the Island of 
Jersey, Channel Islands, and her father. Major William H. Bail- 
hache, were editors and owners of newspapers; and her maternal 
grandfather. General Mason Brayman, a lawyer, was also an 
unpretentious writer. A small volume of his verse was published 
as a gift to his family and friends. 

With a natural love of literature, poetry, music and art, Miss 
Bailhache has been prevented by ill health, and later by business 



84 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

cares and duties, from devoting the time to their study, which she 
ardently desired. 

She was librarian of the Coronado library for three years, and 
after the death of her father was appointed postmistress at Coronado 
by President Roosevelt, through the influence of the late Colonel 
John Hay, then Secretary of State, and other old-time Springfield, 
Illinois, friends of her father, who was editor and proprietor of the 
Illinois State Journal when Abraham Lincoln was made President. 

At the expiration of her term of office Miss Bailhache was 
re-appointed by President Taft. Since leaving the Coronado office 
she has continued in the postal service in the San Diego office. Her 
home is at Coronado, where she lives with her mother. 

"WHO SHALL SEPARATE VSV— Romans 8:35 

To mortal sense he's gone away, 
While I alone walk, day by day, 
The path we wTre to tread henceforth, 
Together. 

But what is separation — Death — 
To those who know, no mortal breath 
Can part our lives — so closely bound 
Together ? 

For Love envelops sky and land : 
And those dear ones who understand, 
Know in this Love that we shall be — 
Together ! 

MY LOVES 

I love the sea, the sky, the trees, 
The radiant sunset, the gentle breeze. 

I love the sand, the ocean's roar, 
The sweeping curve along the shore. 

I love the ebb and flow of tide, 
I love the vast horizon wide. 

I love the shade, the rising sun. 

The dark'ning shadow when day is done. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 85 

I love the mist, the passing shower, 
I love the clouds at sunset hour. 

I love the trees against the sky. 
And the night-wind's mournful sigh. 

I love the stars, the moon's soft beams 
Silv'ring the breast of rippling streams. 

I love the forest's untrodden path. 
The echo of a wood nymph's laugh. 

I love the desert's vast expanse, 
Alluring with its strange romance. 

I love the mountain's towering height; 
I love the torrent in its might. 

I love the canyon's deep retreat. 
With its fairy moon-flower sweet. 

I love the wildness of the storm — 
And then the roseate flush of morn. 

I love the summer's gorgeous hue, 
Flaunting flowers — sky's deep blue: 

And the emerald blades of grass, 
The clover nodding, as I pass. 

I love the modest violet. 

Hid 'neath leaves with dew-drops wet. 

I love the lily-of-the-vale. 

Pure and sweet in garments pale. 

I love the rich scent of the rose. 
And every flower of God that blows. 



86 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

I love the wind-swept stormy lake ; 
The autumn leaves — the first snowflake. 

I love the lightning flash, the rain ; 
The frosty tracing on window pane. 

I love the calm earth's robe of white ; 
And the still darkness of the night. 

These, every one, are life to me. 
And God o'er-shadows land and sea! 



Daisy M. Barteau 

Daisy M. Barteau is a native of Minnesota, her early years being 
spent in that state. She frequently drove about with her father, 
Rev. Sidney H. Barteau, a home missionary of the Congregational 
Church, in his work of preaching to little groups of the widely 
scattered population and organizing Sabbath schools. These long 
days in the open fostered in her a deep love of nature and a habit 
of reflection. Her father's failing health caused the family's removal 
to the South, and on his death, in 1898, Miss Barteau went to Chat- 
tanooga, Tenn., where she joined the Typographical Union and 
mastered the trade of linotype operator, which she has quietly pur- 
sued ever since. In 1903 she removed with her mother to San 
Diego, Cal., where they have since resided. She has been actively 
identified with temperance, equal suffrage, universal peace and 
other movements for social and economic betterment. She is a 
Socialist and was honored by that party with the nomination for 
member of the California Assembly, Seventy-ninth District, in 1916. 
She is a member of various literary and musical organizations, and 
served on the Woman's Board of the Panama-California Exposi- 
tions of 1915 and 1916. She has written verse and composed music 
occasionally from an impulse toward self-expression, but without 
attempt to make them public, but has published anonymously a few 
poems, sketches and songs. 



AT ONE WITH THEE 

''Freely ye have received; freely give." 

O wondrous Breath, all Life and Love expressing, 
Forth from the ONE Thou flowest evermore ; 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 87 

I, too, may feel the marvel of Thy blessing; 

Mine, too, the gifts from Thine exhaustless store. 

Yet not for me Thy gift for miser's hoarding — 

Still waters soon in fetid stagnance lie ; 
The hand that grasps, will stiffen, still recording 

Th' inexorable law that all but Love must die. 

O soul-enriching Way of Love's unfolding! 

O happy Law of Life's mobility ! 
O Peace, to plastic rest 'neath Wisdom's molding, 

Slowly becoming, and at length to be 

A living, breathing channel for Thy flowing ; 

An instrument attuned to harmony; 
O joy of joys! the inmost being knowing 

Its destiny — to be at one with Thee ! 



THE CALL TO ARMS 

(A Mother's Exhortation to Her Son, Called to the Colors in 
War of Aggression) 

And have they called thee to the colors — thee. 
My son, mine only son? Was't not enough 
That they, the overlords of war, should lure 
Him on, thy father, to untimely death 
Ere yet thou drew'st the primal breath of life ; 
With one hand beckoning his eager youth. 
The other hidden in their blood-bought gold ; 
One hand outstretched in eloquent appeal. 
The other grasping at ill-gotten gains 
Filched from the people ? Ah, until that hour 
I lived a simple girl content with life 
And love ; then Woe with thorned and fiery lash 
Awoke and scourged me into womanhood. 



88 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

My son, that night a vision came to me — 

I saw 5'our father in his mortal hour ; 

I viewed the very manner of his fall ; 

How that he drew with him to th' gates of death 

(For he was fearless, and occasion served) 

A hundred brothers, husbands, sons; made desolate 

A hundred homes, and doomed to penury 

The prattling child ; brought timid maidens near 

By-ways where hidden Vice lurks dangerously; 

Filled prison cells and sent to early grave 

The grief-worn mother; this your father did 

With innocent heart, in blind obedience ; 

A brave and loyal soul, a patriot 

Aflame with holy zeal, unholy sped ; 

Through lofty words and sounding phrases made 

An instrument for scheming avarice. 

Today, methinks, I hear from fiends of hell 

Sardonic laughter for poor humankind : 

"At it again, the fools! The slaughter-fest 

Is on ! In rows and regiments the mass 

Oppose they know not what, they know not why; 

But trample each the other ; strive t' efface 

Their self-same image in their fellowman! 

March, dig, maim, kill, and never question : 'Why, 

Why do I thus? Why slay my brother?' Nay — 

'It is the order.' " 

WHY? That pregnant word 
Relentless, will not down ; its letters sear 
Mine eyelids, fiery writ athwart the sky. 
Mine ears are deafened by that question, hurled 
In mocker}^ upon the balmy air 
From shrieking shrapnel and th' insensate roar 
Of monster guns, far-flinging shot and shell, 
While sobbing breath of death-struck agony 
Gives back to shudd'ring earth the fateful "WHY?' 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 89 

One day a thousand thousand throats shall swell 
To speed that question on the wand'ring winds ; 
A thousand thousand tongues, articulate, 
Shall find an answer for the waiting world. 
Sounding the knell of human slavery. 
Yea, in that answer lies the doom of war — 
Herald of joy, 'twill greet the dawning day 
Of regnant justice and of brotherhood; 
And children born into that better world 
Shall marvel that these things could ever be. 

Yet would they call thee? Hale thee from my side, 

A tool to shape dark means to darker ends ? 

I call thee, I, thy mother, to resist 

That hell-born mandate; stand erect, a MAN, 

With folded arms and level gaze, defy 

Their hireling minions ; bid them do their worst ; 

Oh, teach thy lips the hero's answer, "NO!" 

Refuse the horrid task ; not thine must be 

Or part or lot in this iniquity. 

Deny to dabble in a brother's blood 

Those hands that never yet received a stain 

Save that of honest toil ; I counsel thee 

Refuse, e'en though refusal in this hour 

Means ignominious death ; yea, I implore 

By love that first was thine while yet thou lay'st 

For many a weary month beneath my heart ; 

And by the tedious agony of birth ; 

And by these breasts that fed thy helpless need — 

Fling not away that precious gift of life 

In hate-born strife and hideous injury. 

If blood must flow, oh, rather let it soak 

The fertile soil of freedom, whence shall spring 

White flowers of love and peace, and joyous fruits 

Of comfort-bringing toil, than run to waste 

On arid sands of nations' hatred. 



90 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Stay, 
Stay but a moment — see'st no other way 
Save that which leads through Death's dark portal out 
To light and freedom? Is there no release? — 
Perchance if thou obey the bloody best — 
Follow where'er war's banner leads — perchance 
Thou may'st return victorious to mine arms. 

Begone, unworthy thought ! Hence, cruel spawn 
Of coward heart, that close would hold its own 
And let the world go wailing, comfortless. 

Oh, why is't given me to see so clear 

Those other mothers, mourning other sons ? 

Too heavy falls the burden on my heart. 

How can I wreathe the martyr's crown of thorns 

For thee, beloved ? Must I hold the sword 

To pierce thy naked heart, that so thy blood. 

Thy fresh, young blood, forth gushing, shall cry out: 

"Make way, make way for freedom !" ? Must I bid 

Thee lay thy body down to bridge one gap 

'Twixt man and man ? 

'Tis finished; he is gone! 
My words have sent my darling to his death 
For brotherhood — for justice — freedom — ah, I faint! 
I die ! Come back ! Come back ! God ! God ! 



Anna E. Berry hill 

Anna E. Berryhill is a native of Illinois. She has been a resi- 
dent of Kansas, Missouri, Oregon, Idaho, and since 1911 has made 
her home in California. She was educated and later became a 
successful teacher in the public schools. She has always had a 
faculty for writing verses on timely topics, and many of her poems 
have been popular for recitations. Some of these are "A Story of 
Christmas," "Rival Melodies" and "The Kansas Volunteer." Her 
writing has been a pleasant pastime. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 91 

THE GIRLS OF SAN DIEGO 

They searched from Maine to Florida, 

They searched from east to west 
For girls to bring to fairyland 

The sweetest and the best. 
They were bright and winsome lassies 

And beautiful to see, 
But the girls of San Diego 

Are the girls for me. 

Beauties came from crowded cities 

Where fashion reigns supreme. 
And they were full of life and vim 

And lovely as a dream; 
That one and all are peaches 

I'm sure we will agree, 
But the girls of San Diego 

Are the girls for me. 

So bring your beauties back again 

With just as many more; 
You may choose the loveliest faces 

In this land from shore to shore ; 
They may vie with Shasta daisies. 

And be just as fair to see. 
But the girls of San Diego 

Are the girls for me. 

So bring your girls to fairyland, 

Wherever they may be. 
To our famous Exposition, 

We'll gladly give the key. 
To the finest girls from every clime, 

We'll all be there to see, 
But the girls in San Diego 

Are the girls for me. 



92 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

L. Adda Nichols Bigelow 

MT. SHASTA 

Against the back-ground of the western sky, 
On this fair summer morn, while mellow light 
Lies peacefully upon its snow-clad brow, 
Beams grand Mt. Shasta, close beneath the clouds, 
Like some great thought of God, to earth sent down, 
To lift the longing soul of man heavenward ; 
And linking nature with the vast unseen. 
Majestic sentinel! sun-bathed and white! 
Singing the silent song too deep for words. 

We journey on, and slowly now recedes 
The great mount from our view, and distance sheds 
A halo soft upon the parting scene. 
Once stamped indelibly upon the mind 
Thus favored with the all-transporting view, 
We dwell henceforth in higher altitudes. 

THE WHITE-COVERED WAGON 

I'm thinking to-day, as often before. 

Of a childish longing and dream 
To ride in a white-covered wagon afar. 

Through woodland, valley and stream. 

To sleep in a white-covered wagon at night ; 

To breakfast the roadside along; 
Delighted the early sunlight to greet, 

And the wild birds' jubilant song. 

And to rest, when the noon-tide overtakes, 
'Neath the shade of a spreading tree; 

And quench our thirst from a sparkling spring. 
While we lunch; a jolly crowd we. 

Then onward again till the twilight creeps 
And covers the land, and we share 

Our evening meal, while the birds gone to sleep 
Leave a stillness in earth and air. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 93 

Thus many the days and weeks would I ride 

In the white-covered wagon quaint ; 
Till my childish longing was satisfied 

With pictures my fancy would paint. 
* * * 

A procession of years has passed along; 

And the child's dream unfulfilled ; 
It has vanished with dreams of later years 

And the castles we fain would build. 

Helen Richardson Brown 

Born in Woodland, California (eighteen miles from Sacra- 
mento) ; educated in public schools of Woodland and later at 
Calistoga, Napa County. At eighteen she moved to San Francisco, 
where she became particularly interested in Chinese life as viewed 
in Chinatown of old San Francisco. Published first story in Over- 
land Monthly in 1901. Soon after that, a story of Chinese life in 
the Criterion (New York). Entered the University of California 
at Berkeley in 1901 and took up course specializing in English 
literature and composition. Spent three years in college, during 
which time she was associate editor of The Occident, the Uni- 
versity weekly, also frequent contributor to the College Monthly, 
The California Magazine. During this period and the year 
following contributed stories to the San Francisco Examiner, San 
Francisco Neivs Letter, Sunset Magazine and Out West. Two years 
after leaving college she took a position as private secretary to 
Mr. Alfred Holman, editor of the San Francisco Argonaut; also 
acted as exchange editor, selecting jokes, anecdotes, etc., remaining 
here a year. Then took position with a teacher of short-story 
writing, reading stories and giving criticisms. 

For about ten years, up to the time she came to San Diego, about 
five years ago, she did but little literary work. Was married the 
year after coming to San Diego, and has written for publication 
more or less since, although, owing to family duties, has not made a 
profession of it. Her most recent stories have been in the Overland 
Monthly, Los Angeles Times and People's Home Journal. 

THE MATERIALIST 
Oh, I can't be no poet, 

Fer I see things as they is, 
An' fixin' things up grander 

Seems to be the poet's biz. 

To me a bird's a varmint, 

That hunts fer worms an' sings ; 



94 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

The sea's just green salt water, 
Full o' fish, an' crabs, an' things ; 

An' flowers is only weeds-like, 

A little colored up; 
A child is just a critter, 

Like a frisky, hungry pup; 

An' a woman's just a human, 
That talks, and smiles an' lies, 

An' maybe makes good biscuit, 
An' is sweet-like — ^when she tries. 

An' what is love but longin' 
Per these critters by your side. 

An' doin' yer best an' workin' hard 
To comfort an' pervide? 

No, I can't be no poet, 

An' a-fixin' ain't my biz ; 
I takes a sight o' comfort, though. 

With things just as they is, 

THE TIE 

I wake. A bird is singing in the vine 

Beside my window ; 

It is the same brown thrush 

That built and sang last year ; 

I know, because in that same month 

I wove a wreath and plaited yards of tulle 

To lay upon my hair. 

And in my heart 

That song found echo. 

But now no echo rings. 

On yesterday I went into a sombre, high-ceiled room, 

And sat before a grizzled, kindly judge, 

And told him all ; 

And when I'd done 

He took his pen and wrote; 

Set down the words that made me free. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 95 

So I am free, yes free as you, 
To choose another mate and sing where'er I will, 
And yet, though lovers hundred came to woo, 
And all the world was filled with lovers' songs, 
I could not mate ; I could not sing. 

THE FOG HORN 

The fog horn calls the whole night through, 

"Oh, Mariner, run slow, run slow ! 
The rocks of shore are cruel sharp 

And it is fathoms deep below!" 

My heart was once a worthy ship ; 

'Twas made to sail life's journey through. 
But Cupid manned my precious craft. 

And Cupid never caution knew. 

He had one thought, this blithsome lad, 
To reach the lights of Harbor Town, 

He forged ahead, though wisdom warned. 
We struck the rocks : my ship went down ! 

Oh, mariners upon the seas. 

Do heed the call, "Run slow! Run slow!" 
For, oh, the rocks are cruel sharp. 
And it is fathoms deep below ! 

Bessie Lytle Bradley 

Bessie Lytle Bradley was born in Mount Vernon, Kentucky, 
October 5, 1848, a descendant of the family of Zachary Taylor. She 
received her education in Atchison High School, Kansas ; Camden 
Point Academy, Missouri, and Farmington Academy, Kansas, after 
which she taught school in Kansas and Colorado. She began 
writing verse at the age of eighteen, but wrote little until her late 
twenties. In 1883 she was married to Judge W. W. Bradley of 
Louisville, Kentucky, in Spearfish, South Dakota, where they lived 
many happy years, amid grand mountain scenery, which she 
describes with deep appreciation in her "To the Memory of a 
Friend," "A Mountain Idyl" and other verses. Her husband passed 
away in 1908. In 1913 she came to San Diego to be with a daughter. 
She has written several poems on San Diego and Coronado. Among 
her other poems may be mentioned: "El Camino Real," "Thine," 
and "San Diego de Alcala." 



96 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

SUNSET ON THE SEA 

The sunset leapt, from the burning sky, 
With bated breath, and lurid glow, — 
Swept out o'er the bosom of the sea, — 

O'er the heart of the lambent sea, — 
Above Point Loma the miracle swept, 
Adown to the ocean waters it leapt, 
And into the surf where the salt-waters crept, — 

Into the heart of the sea. 

Deep into the sea its radiance beamed, 
Over earth and sea its glory streamed. 
Like molten gold it glinted and gleamed, 

Majestic, terrible, grand. 
Along the deep-drawn, radiant path. 
Absorbing, consuming, with fervid breath. 
The latent stretch of shore-line, beneath 

Where the ocean-waters wind. 

And the tide swept out, on the burnished sea, 
And glowed like fire-flies over the Bay, — 
The waters, beside where the city lay. 

Submerged in th' gold-gleaming light. 
And into the heart of the sunset the world, 
On its fiery orbit relentlessly whirled, 
Through cosmical space, seemed gathered and hurled, 

Erstwhile came in the drifting night. 



TRANSFORMATION 

Entwining the dead heart of summer. 

And wreathing the past, like a dream. 
Float visions of redolent beauty. 

From forests that radiantly gleam. 
And skirting the river's bright margin 

Slope out to the westward, where rise 
Green mountains, submerged in the sunlight. 

Towering up to the blue, rolling skies. 




TOWER, AND PART OF SOUTH FACADE, SCIENCE 
AND EDUCATION BUILDING 




PERGOLA WALK IX THE MONTEZUMA GARDENS 




CALIFORNIA AND ADMINISTRATION BUILDINGS, 
FROM ACROSS THE RAVINE 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 97 

But, now through the mist-shrouded dullness 

Looms only the snow-mantled wraith 
Of that time, when the beauty of summer 

Lay rife, 'long the bloom-laden path ; 
No longer responsively breathing 

With animate heart, as of yore ; 
But, silently threading the shadows, 

Enshrouding the desolate shore. 

For winter sits, sullenly, glowering. 

Defiant, relentless, as fate. 
And treads on the dead heart of summer ; 

While yearn the quick pulses and beat. 
For the breath of the flowers — the music, 

That rapturously floated and filled 
The soul, as it reveled, forgetful. 

Submerged and entranced and enthralled. 

Ah, memory recalling each echo. 

Sweeps, fondly the chords of the past. 
Which throb, on the unbroken silence. 

Their rhythmical cadence of rest! 



Ellen Hosmer Campbell 

Ellen Hosmer Campbell (Mrs. J. P.) was born in Illinois, and 
belongs to the Alumni of Monticello Seminary. She is a C. L. S. C. 
graduate, and is a clubwoman of long standing, having held office 
in the Federation. For years she conducted a Woman's Column 
after an original plan in her husband's newspapers in Indiana and 
Kansas. Joined the Woman's Press Club in San Diego four years 
ago, and is devoting her spare time to magazine work, with 
novelettes and serials for her goal. 



THE ONLY PEBBLE ON THE BEACH 

The beach was strewn with shells; some belonged to the 
barnacle family, others to the oyster, clam, and even the 
gelatinous kelp connection, while many were ordinary peb- 
bles. But all had their uses in the strata of beach society. 



98 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

The coquina (for this was in proud Southern waters), 
which is very useful in the building of noble structures, con- 
ceived the idea of uniting the various occupants of the sand, 
into an organization which would benefit the community. 
So a meeting was called of the different clans. There were 
represented barnacles, oysters, clams, a few corals of^ the 
reefs, and numbers of the more humble and nameless pebbles, 
even seaweed and moss were eligible. One solitary star fish 
that had been washed up by the waves was invited to come 
into the circle, but declined. In the meantime some of the 
industrious ones of the guild kept busily at work, the oysters 
producing pearls, the clams furnishing nutriment, and the 
diminutive mussels were most helpful in filling up the vacan- 
cies anywhere, making a solid path for those who needed a 
sure foundation, and in many instances acted as a filter for 
the pure stream of thought poured out from the fountains 
of knowledge. The barnacles stuck at their posts, usually 
foreign appointments, and when relieved from duty, con- 
tributed much information concerning other coasts. The 
coquina piled up solid walls of beauty, which brought plaudits 
from everj^one. By and by the fame of the organization 
became widespread. 

But a few of the clinging kind, the barnacles and flabby 
kelp, feeling the need of someone less industrious who could 
radiate from several points, in whose reflected glory they 
might shine while doing nothing, turned longing eyes to the 
magnificent star fish. 

"Oh, we must have her in our circle to make it complete," 
they cried. So the path builders were appointed to pave the 
way to her groove, in the sands, and tempt her w^ith a throne 
of pearls so liberally cast broadside by the oysters. 
Thus filled with visions of personal aggrandizement, the dis- 
play of corrugated charms and pointed scintillations, recently 
buried in the briny deep, she agreed and was received into 
the assembly with much eclat, not only by the flabby members 
and parasites, but by the more solid ones. But, alas! very 
soon there was a change in the order of things, the rules 
were disregarded, the new member being wise in her own 
conceit, and radiated not only brilliancy but discontent. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 99 

"They were such plodders, and behind the times." When 
remonstrated with by the charter members, and their past 
achievements referred to with pride, she exclaimed: 

"What are j^our oyster pearls, bivalves and clams to me, 
who hail from western waters, where my associates were the 
beautiful abalones, one of which would make a dozen of 
your pearls. Also with the meat are so prized by tourists, and 
epicures, that laws were made to preserve them from the 
Japanese, and that and other causes I grant, nearly precipi- 
tated war between the 'powers that be'." 

"Aye! Aye!" cried out one tough old barnacle. 

"And," went on the haughty insurgent, pressing her advan- 
tage, "instead of paths made by the common mussels, my 
fissures in the rocky formations there are paved with dainty 
olivels, the seadollars are strewn everjrwhere, carved cradles, 
the artistic owl vignettes, sea anemone and other ornaments 
of society I fail to see in your pockets. Our clams are used 
for bait to lure the giant barracuda from the depths of the 
kelp beds. Oh, how I long for my native surf!" 

At this an immense turtle, which had waddled up during 
the discussion, inquired: "Have you no connections you 
can associate with here? I'm sure the Stella family is very 
common in these waters. I have seen hordes of them larger 
and finer than you." And turning to the others so crest- 
fallen: 

"I'm astonished at you old scions of the Southern mollusk 
family, that you let her out-brag you. You with your red 
snapper and pompano, bluepoints and littleneck clams ; besides 
the barracuda of which she boasts, is as the coarse and com- 
mon cat fish found in fresh waters. The abalone pearl ranks 
with our alligator skin, and corals in commercial value, 
while" 

Just then an immense wave rolled over them and the now 
forsaken braggadocia was caught by one of her prongs in a 
bit of undertow, and washed out of the audience. The session 
adjourned with a vote of thanks to the tortoise for his defense 
of their pearly depths. And at the following meeting, when 
harmony was restored, this member of the crustacean family 
received the highest honor, by acclamation. 



100 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 



Virginia Church 



Virginia Church has made quite a name for herself in the line 
of dramatics. Her first play, "Commencement Days," was written 
in collaboration with Margaret Mayo. This was first produced in 
Los Angeles, California, by Morosco, then bought by Cort and sent 
on the road. Another, "Susan Sayre, Suffragette," was played in 
stock in the East. "The Heart Specialist," a farce, was produced 
in San Diego. Her last comedy, "The Perverseness of Pamela," 
received second prize in the Craig contest, Boston, and was chosen 
by Harvard University for its annual production and appeared in 
the spring of 1916. Mrs. Church collaborated with Mrs. L. L. 
Rowan in a drama dealing with the history of Southern California 
which has not yet appeared. 

She has had produced and published several one-act plays; short 
stories in Smart Set, Delineator, Collier's etc. Her one novel, 
published by the Page Company, of Boston, was from her play, 
"Commencement Days." She is still writing, and her friends have 
large hopes of her work for the future. 



Nettie Finley Clarke 

Mrs, Nettie Finley Clarke was born in the Middle West during 
the Civil War. After an early marriage, she spent the best 
years of her life in devoting herself to her family and consequent 
duties on a large farm. Later, poor health and a desire to live in 
a milder climate brought her to San Diego, California, where she 
has resided for five happy years. Two sons and two daughters 
are living. 

WEE BIT LASSIE 

Hae ye seen my leesome lassie, 

Hae ye seen my bonnie Jean? 
She wi' dancin' feet an' airy. 

She wha' ha'e the sparklin' een ? 

Hae ye heard the happy laughter, 

Seen the dimple in her chin? 
Weel I ken ye a' wad lo'e her 

An' gie much those smiles to win. 

Hae ye heard far bells faint ringin' 

r the misty early dawn? 
Aye: — 'tis Jeanne wha' is singin' 

As she lightly wanders on. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 101 

When the lav'rock wakes at daylicht, 

Singin' as he upwards soars, 
Then I meet her pou'in' gowans 

Ere the dew is afE the moors. 

Little lassie, wee bit lassie. 

Ye are sic a little Queen, 
A' the warle has nae anither. 

For I lo'e ye, brown-eyed Jean. 

MY FAITHER'S HAME 

The nicht draws doon on the rainswept moor, 

It's a lang lang way I hae cam'. 
The hurtlin' win's hae wrestled me sair 

An' I'm far frae my Faither's Hame. 

Hoosen an' Ian', my kith an' kin. 

Fame, gear an' a' hae passed me by. 
The snaws o' year, a life fu' o' care. 

An' the End of the Road is nigh. 

Mony a time my haert's been weary, 
Mony a time my strength maist gone. 

But wi' His voice an' ban' to guide me, 
I juist keep gaein' on an' on. 

Ayont the gloom and mist drift I see 

A shinin' licht, an open door. 
My Faither's voice is ca'in' my name. 

"Enter, child; the journey is o'er." 

E, H, Clough (Yorick) 

One of the old school of California writers, contemporary of 
Bierce, McEwen, Pixley, Cahill and other veterans of the press of 
the Golden State. He has delighted the appreciative for many years 
with his weekly essays, entitled "On the Margin," in the San Diego 
Union. Here is one of many quotable things, too fine to be lost. 
Two other quotations from his pen will be found later on. 

ON THE HIGHWAY TO THE CITY OF SILENCE 

The Parable runneth somewhat after this wise: First, as 
to the Road. The queerest highway you ever heard of, more 



102 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

varied as to length, width, grade and construction than any 
you ever traversed. Some of it was smooth and direct ; some 
of it was rough and steep ; some of it was broad and com- 
modious; some of it was narrow and tortuous. But the 
queerest thing about the Road was its frequent adaptability 
to the disposition of those who traveled upon it. Many were 
able to pick out the smoothest reaches, while others found 
naught but rough places throughout their journey. For some 
it was easy going because they made it smoother by conscious 
effort or because they were naturally adapted to making the 
best of bad roads; others stumbled and halted irresolutely 
even in the broadest, smoothest stretches, because they were 
bad travelers, discontented with any sort of road and inclined 
to seek out the worst places in the highway. Incredible as 
you may think it, nobody knew where the Road began ; but 
everybody knew where it ended at the gates of the Walled 
City. 

AN ABODE OF BEAUTIFUL DREAMS 

Now as to the Walled City : And this is the most remark- 
able part of the Parable; more remarkable, even, than that 
part which tells of the Pilgrims. The Walled City, like the 
Road, was largely a thing of the imagination — one might say 
that it was an illusion, for nobody traversing the Road had 
even seen it, although the walls of it were plainly visible 
almost from the place where the Pilgrims began their journey. 
They were very high walls and completely concealed what- 
ever lay behind them— not a tower or minaret or pinnacle 
or steeple overtopped the walls of the Walled City ; only the 
infinity of space. And none of those who journeyed to the 
City would say of his knowledge that a city existed behind the 
walls. Yet most of them believed in the City, and each had 
conjured a Vision of it after his own notion of what the City 
should be. And they disputed constantly, and oftentimes 
acrimoniously, upon their preconception of what lay behind 
the great high, impassive, unbroken walls. 

THE ALL-DEVOURING GATES 

These walls were the strangest walls that ever were 
builded. At the beginning of the journey they were equally 
or nearly equally distant from the Pilgrim setting out; but 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 103 

as the travelers proceeded some of them came to the walls of 
the city more quickly than the others, although all traversed 
the Road at the same pace. It may be that the walls them- 
selves came to meet the Pilgrims in some instances, for many 
of them had scarcely begun their journey before they dis- 
appeared through the gates in the walls; others were a long 
time on the Road. But finally every Pilgrim came to the 
walls and passed through a gate. 

DARK POINTS OF DREAD 

Although the Pilgrims knew that they must pass the gates 
to the City ; that the City was their ultimate destination ; and 
that they could not go around or halt under the walls; still, 
most of them were filled with fear of the gate while pro- 
fessing a sincere longing to live in the City, notwithstanding 
the fact that none of them knew anything about the City 
except w^hat he had heard or hoped or dreamed. And over 
the lintel of each gate the Pilgrims had imagined a word of 
dread import — a word embodying all of horror and for some, 
of despair. Consequently few of the Pilgrims wanted to pass 
through their appointed gate, however firmly they might 
believe in their illusion concerning the City beyond the wall. 
Some, however, discouraged by the fatigue of the Road, 
were eager enough, and hastening onward plunged headlong 
through the gate. But whoever passed through the gates 
never returned. And a vast mystery hung over the Walled 
City — mystery and doubt and silence. 

A RESTLESS, CLAMOROUS THRONG 

The Pilgrims: The Road was thronged with them. At 
the beginning of each generation of those w^ho journey upon 
the Road to the Walled City there must have been not less 
than a billion and a half, but as the day of the journey 
advanced the crowd lessened ; by noon there were only a 
third of those who started in the morning ; and as the evening 
shadows fell the number had dwindled to a few scattered 
groups of aged men and women. They were of every sort 
and condition ; red, white, black, yellow and brown ; rich and 
poor ; high and low ; humble and haughty ; good and bad ; 
happy and unhappy ; civilized and barbarous ; intellectual and 
ignorant ; virtuous and vicious ; and some went forward sing- 



104 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

ing, as the poets; while others were sorrow laden, as the 
children of want and misery, who were forever falling into 
the ditches or stumbling over the roughest places; and some 
were kindly, as those who reached a helping hand to the ditch- 
fallen and the blind ones who stumbled ; and there were sick 
folk among them and those who brought upon themselves all 
their woes, as the lame and laggard and useless made so by 
their own vices of indulgence; and some were strong and 
confident in their strength and fit to linger long on the Road 
before they came to the all-devouring gates of the Walled 
City. And the great mob moved forward clamoring, weep- 
ing, quarreling the one with the other, shouting joyously, 
fighting furiously, pushing, struggling, trampling the one 
upon the other, disputing upon everything under the sun and 
especially upon that which they did not know and could never 
know; curious as to the material things that came in their 
way on the journey; inquiring as to the reason and the why; 
carrying one another's burdens ; robbing one another of their 
most precious possessions ; preaching gospels of peace to war- 
ring neighbors; pushing one another into the gates of the 
walls; hating, loving, tyrannizing, praising, env}^ing, sacrific- 
ing, oppressing, helping, hindering, each Pilgrim urged by 
the impetus of his passion, faith, hope, ambition, nobility, 
avarice, fear, courage and folly. 

THE MEANING OF THE PARABLE 

And so they all come to the dread Gates of the Walled 
City and passing in are seen no more on the hither side of 
the Wall. And as each comes to his own Gate he shrinks 
appalled, for the passage is cold and dark and smells of 
human decay; and no man knows where the passage leads. 
Many cry a question adown the dark corridor, but not even 
the faintest echo answers; and the Wall is as the wall of 
an eternal tomb, gray and high and impenetrable. For this is 
the Riddle of Life, and the Pilgrims are You and Me and all 
the People, and the Road is the Road of Destiny, and the 
Walled City is the Grave, and over the Gates thereto is 
inscribed the one dread word Death, which we have invented 
to mean Hope or Despair as our Hearts or our Faith may 
interpret. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 105 



James Connolly 



James Connolly was born July 12, 1842, in Cavan, Province of 
Ulster, Ireland. He was educated in his native village school. He 
served as a ship master for twenty years, in which capacity he 
circumnavigated the globe many times. He has contributed poems, 
short stories and sketches to various magazines. He is author of 
"Magic of the Sea," an historic novel ; "The Naval Cockade," a 
drama in five acts ; "The Jewels of King Art," a volume of verse, 
etc. He resides at Coronado. It is interesting to note he was the 
founder and first editor of The Tidings, published in Los Angeles. 

TO THE HUMMING BIRD 

Radiant gem of beauty rare 
Flashing through the morning air! 
When spring aglow with song and shout. 
Flings all her leafy banners out, 
And buds in later suns expand 
A blaze of beauty o'er the land, 
From flower to flower on restless wing 
Spinning to taste each honey spring, 
Deep in the heart of every flower, 
Embosomed in each fragrant bower. 

From every rose some rare tint caught 
Was in thy lustrous vesture wrought 
With emerald and carmine hues, 
And iridescent evening dews, 
And glistening rainbow fragments: spun 
From rays of morning star and sun. 
And tropic rain — and mist, and light 
Of the warm languorous southern night, 
And crimson, violet, olive gold 
In infinite loveliness untold. 

How far the unfathomed sea below 
Sparkled the rubies' wondrous glow 
Thy slender throat encompassing? 
Ah never grandest crown of king 
So bright a jewel yet displayed — 



106 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

What time the blithe sea fairies played 
Thy little song's accompaniment, 
On their strung harps of gold, that lent 
Strange music to the monotone 
Of the old sea's eternal moan. 

Dr, Edward Fayette Eldridge 

Edward Fayette Eldridge was born at Ketchumville, New York, 
December 28, 1855. He was educated at the Weston High School, 
Weston, Massachusetts, and at the State Normal School, Cortland, 
New York. He commenced the study of medicine in 1876, at Boston, 
Massachusetts. Attended two courses of medical lectures at Dart- 
mouth Medical College, from which he was graduated, November 
15, 1881, vice-president of his class. He immediately commenced 
the practice of medicine at Needham, Massachusetts, and remained 
there two years ; was then seven years at New London, Wisconsin, 
In 1890 he removed to Grand Junction, Colorado, and in 1914 ill 
health brought him to San Diego, where he remained until his death, 
March 8, 1916. He was a writer from the joy it gave to him, and 
his writings had a wide vogue. In Colorado he had quite a reputa- 
tion as a novelist as well as a poet. 

CHEER UP 

There ne'er was a rosebud, unarmed with a thorn. 
There ne'er was an Eden, but sorrow was born ; 
There ne'er was a conquest, without a hard fight, 
And never a morning, until after the night. 

There ne'er was a Savior, until a great sin, 

And even the faithful, through trials must win ; 

The rocks on the desert, a cool shadow cast — 

E'en a wreck on the beach, may protect from the blast. 

So don't get discouraged, some others have failed! 
Not all reach their ports, who in fair weather sailed, 
But "rig" up your "canvas," or crawl up the "trail" — 
You may yet reach the summit, or catch a fair gale. 

MY CREED 

Back on the void, from whence I came, 

There broods but blackest night ; 
Into the gloom toward which I haste 

No beacon throws its light! 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 107 

But I am here and Time is mine, 

It matters not how long — 
'Tis mine to cheer some broken heart ; 

Replace some sigh, with song. 

The ages past, Or yet to come, 

To Me speak Not of fear — 
If I but do the best I can 

And do it Now, and Here. 

THE OVERLAND PONY EXPRESSf 

[This poem was awarded the first prize, in competition with the 
English-speaking world, at the Fourth Grand National Eisteddfod, 
held under the auspices of the Cambrian Association, in the Great 
Mormon Tabernacle, Salt Lake City, Utah, the first week in October, 
1908. — Editor's Note.] 

The Overland Stage is fast nearing the Post 
Enveloped in dust, like an uncanny ghost. 
It sways on its journey through shadow and light, 
For the fort must be reached, e'er the fall of the night. 



■\The Overland Mail, generally represented by a Concord coach, 
ivas the usual means of cowveying the mail and express pouches 
from the terminal of the railroad, in some middle ^western city, to 
an outpost, ijohich 'was either a permanent fort or a stockade at the 
end of the ijuagon road. From these outposts, which <were the rendez- 
vous of scouts, prospectors and frontiersmen, there extended across 
the plains and through mountain passes, single paths, or trails, over 
ivhich the Overland Pony Express riders, once a week, dashed across 
the country, each relay making about one hundred miles, depending 
somewhat upon the location of water for the stations, the keepers 
of <which, isolated as they were, and continually exposed to hostile 
attacks, were about as reckless as the riders themselves ; but as there 
were several of them at a station it was not quite so lonesome or 
dangerous. 

The hardships and dangers which beset the riders were enough to 
discourage all but the most vigorous and daring, as many times they 
were compelled to leave the regular trails on account of rock slides, 
torrents or forest fires, as well as the Indians, who seemed well- 
nigh omnipresent. These intrepid riders generally reached their 
destination with wonderful promptness. If one of them failed to 
report at his station within a reasonable time, it was known that 
he had either become lost, helplessly disabled, or had died in the 
discharge of his duty. 



108 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

On the edge of the desert which stretches away 

To'ard the sun, now descending, Hke wolves held at bay 

The treacherous Redskins are lying in wait 

For the unguarded victim who leaves its barred gate. 

Beside the wild bronco he scarce can restrain 
The lone rider waits with his hand on the rein 
'Till the pouch from the boot of the Concord is passed 
To his cantle behind, where the thongs make it fast. 
Then springing astride with a hearty "So long" 
His spurs find the "fur," and the onlooking throng 
Are gazing in wonder along the dim trail. 
While clouds of red dust their nostrils assail. 

The gates of the Fortress are closed and made fast 
As the flag flutters down from the top of the mast. 
And shades of the evening exclude from the sight 
The dauntless young rider, who fades in the night. 
As on to'ard the summit he hastens along 
He hums to himself a favorite song. 
And dreams of his Sweetheart with laughing blue eyes, 
Who waits for his coming, beneath southern skies. 

Aware of the danger from merciless foes 
Swift on through the night, he unceasingly goes, 
His cayuse ne'er slacking its renegade pace, 
While a smile, like a baby's, creeps over his face 
As he thinks of the blessings he carries along 
To some lad, from his mother, or childish love song 
That will gladden the heart of her miner at rest 
In the bunk of his cabin, somewhere in the west. 

His speed is now slackened and up to the shed 
His dripping wet mustang is carefully led. 
Where he is assisted by rough, willing hands, 
For it is with effort he painfully stands. 
He drains a deep "schooner," while horses are changed, 
By those who from safet}' are gladly estranged, 
But who, seeming heartless, are tender as girls 
To the dare-devil rider with long streaming curls. 
Again he is off ; straight into the night. 
Soon leaving behind the welcome and light, 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 109 

Along the unguarded and dangerous trail, 
With treasures of gold, and Uncle Sam's mail ; 
Maintaining a pace that none could endure 
Except the wild mustang, whose footing is sure. 
And who, with his rider, though oft in distress, 
Is seldom behind with the Pony Express. 

One-half of his journey, at least fifty miles, 
Is now left behind amid the dark wilds, 
And hope is beginning to sing in his ear — 
When out of the darkness fierce Warriors appear. 
His spurs are thrust deep in the cayuse's sides. 
For the race is to him who most fearlessly rides 
Regardless of trail, or, in fact, lack of one, 
And who can the quickest unlimber his gun. 

On through their midst like a fierce hurricane. 

He rushes along toward the alkali plain — 

To pitch from his saddle, his horse falling dead 

From wounds which have sprinkled his leggins with red. 

Unharmed by their arrows, though still they pursue, 

He shelters himself, and with aim swift and true, 

Assisted by morn, as it breaks o'er the hills, 

"Pumps lead" from his Spencer, which generally kills. 

Repulsed by the slaughter, they hardly can hide. 
The marauders withdraw and reluctantly ride 
Away o'er the foothills, and leave him alone, 
The loss of his "partner" to sadly bemoan. 
The curse of the desert — the demon of thirst, 
Is parching his throat, but what he heeds first 
Is the fact that the landscape is new to his sight — 
That the trail has been lost in the hot running fight. 
His eyes search the landscape for Cottonwood trees. 
For water must seep from the ground under these. 
But not a leaf trembles to gladden his sight. 
Or lessen the terror of his awful plight. 
Half dead from exhaustion, and dazed by the fall, 
He at first tries to walk, but finds he must crawl ; 
To leave the mail pouches ne'er enters his head. 
For he vows they must move until he is dead. 



110 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

To stay where he is means horrible death ; 

So, dragging his load, with a prater on his breath, 

He starts for the foothills, determined to find 

At least a moist spot, or if Nature be kind, 

A hole in the rock, which was filled by the rains 

When winter swept over these now burning plains ; 

Though often polluted by savage and beast, 

To him it seems nectar and fit for a priest. 

Scarce thinking of aught but the terrible thirst, 

He staggers along 'till on his sight burst 

Two warriors, well mounted, but still unaware 

That the cause of their search is awaiting them there, 

Who drink from a "skin" as they pass it around. 

Which was filled from a spring bubbling up from the ground 

Far back in the hills where the giant pines grow, 

And hide from the south w4nds their treasures of snow. 

Not heeding the hazard of tvvo against one 
He drawls from his holster his trusty old gun, 
But his movements attract his now^ startled foes. 
Who reach for their rifles instead of their bows. 
And bullets are whizzing, like bees through the air, 
In a contest that leans toward the bloodthirsty pair. 
But when it is finished two "Injuns" lie prone 
And the rider's left arm shows a bad splintered bone. 

Disregarding the fracture he climbs up the hill 

And from the skin bottle he drinks at his will. 

Then he loosens the horses and soon has his pack 

Again moving west, on the cayuse's back. 

The trail he had lost is now under his feet. 

But the air seems aflame with the glimmering heat. 

While the pain from the wound, streaming up to his head, 

Fills his soul w4th despair and sickening dread. 

It is not for himself that he trembles with fear. 
But the pouch might be lost if no one is near 
To urge on the ponies, or at least hold them back 
From the Indian camp, as they'll double their track. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 111 

To prevent such a sequel, he ties them in haste 
To the belt of his gun, which encircles his waist, 
And summoning all of his fast ebbing strength, 
Determines to ride to his uttermost length. 

With incessant efforts and unbending will, 
He lashes his mounts o'er arroyo and hill, 
Until from exhaustion he falls to the ground, 
To catch from the earth a most welcome sound — 
The rhythmic cadence of iron-shod feet 
Which tell, by their measure, a tale that is sweet — 
That scouts from the station, because he is late, 
Are coming to rescue, or learn of his fate. 

Scarce able to answer the questions they ask 
Until he has drunk from a dusty old flask, 
Which revives him enough to partly explain 
The uneven conflict he had on the plain — 
The loss of his cayuse, the wound of his arm. 
Which he quickly explains had caused no alarm, 
Until the fierce fever excited his brain 
And he feared going mad, from the terrible strain. 

Then his mind wanders off in a feverish dream 

And he kneels in the dust, as if by a stream. 

Attempting to drink, from a fancied clear pool, 

And talks of the water, so sparkling and cool — 

Of losing the pouches, they gave to his care — 

Of the blessings and songs, and the mother's last prayer, 

Then begging the troopers to ''send on the mail," 

He sinks in a swoon, by the side of the trail. 

ENVOI 

In worshiping heroes the world often fails 

To remember the deeds on the overland trails — 

And the men who, resigning their sweethearts and wives, 

Were ever the foremost to hazard their lives 

In efforts to hasten, between east and west 

A message of love from some yearning breast ; 

N'er thinking of honor or worldly estate 

They died for mankind, and MUST live with the great. 



112 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Samuel London Ely 

Samuel London Ely was born near Leadville, Missouri, November 
18, 1871. As a boy he had but three months' schooling, though later 
he was able to attend Ellsworth College, at Iowa Falls, for one 
term. He has been a cowboy and a prospector, and thus became 
familiar with the desert of the Great West. He has not always 
had the desire for literary expression, but two or three years ago 
the urge took possession of him. 

In my comment upon his work I showed that his lack of the 
necessary education prevented his expressing himself in correct and 
choice English, but as there were so many beautiful and poetic 
thoughts enshrined in his eflForts, I urged him to study and continue 
his literary endeavors. The following is but one of many of the 
unpolished gems his verses contain. 



THE SPIRIT OF THE DESERT 

The lines describe the Spirit of the Desert as a 
beautiful, yet healthy and vigorous young woman, 
calling attention to her plans for the reclamation 
of the desert, which speedily transforms the useless 
waste into fertile fields, exquisite gardens, in which 
are beautiful homes. Vast crowds assembled to hear 
and learn. Her assistants were singing and dancing 
girls. The stage was set low, mountains painted on 
the horizon and the wings, in the tones commonly 
found on the unreclaimed desert. Music and danc- 
ing, expressive of the true rhythm of harmony of all 
of God's creation opened the scene. Then the chief 
figure appeared, and here is Mr. Ely's description 
of her: 

Then the spirit of the desert appeared upon the scene, 

With beautiful flowers in either hand ; 

She bowed and smiled, and waved her flowers so fresh and green ; 

In her right hand she held the rose, and violet blue. 

In her left hand she held the water-lily, the fern, and cress, 

All bright and fresh with the morning dew. 




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SAN DIEGO WRITERS 113 

She then addressed herself to individual members 
of the assembled throng and pledged that, if they 
would work in harmony with her, oases would spring 
up on every hand; springs would appear. 

Then, says Mr. Ely, "she produced petals, and 
pollen, and mixed them with the sand." Here is pure 
poetry, and imagination that calls upon the imagina- 
tion of the reader as to the consequence of such mix- 
ing, when water and sunlight also abound. 

At the same time the people, ensnared with her 
vision, "cleared a place for the temple of love and 
hope to stand," while she declared the joy and beauty 
of the doctrine of Universal Brotherhood. 

Then with the petals, and pollen, and sand. 
We built beautiful homes along the shore. 
Just alike for the rich and the poor. 

Then the Desert Maiden brought the new colors 
and beauty into the desert : 

Out of her garments she dusted each fold. 
Rubies, sapphires, garnets and gold. 

Then one asked her where fragrance for the rose 
could be obtained, and the blue for the bluebell, etc. 
While he questioned "a ray of light filtered down 
from heaven in a crystal drop of dew," and she re- 
plied: 

I am the Spirit of the Desert; 

I am the fragrance of the rose ; 

From me the bluebell gets its blue ; 

I am the crystals in the sand ; 

I am the pollen and the petals. 

Of the lilies in the sand; 

I am the lustre in the light-rays ; 

I am the liquid of the dew, 

That make the colors bright and new. 



114 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Maude Ervay Fagin 

Maude Ervay Fagin was born in Dallas, Texas. When quite a 
child the family moved to Colorado Springs. She graduated from 
Wolfe Hall, Denver, Girls' Branch of St. John's College, of 
the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado. In El Paso, Texas, she was 
Chairman of the Letters and Art Department of the El Paso 
Woman's Club, wrote book reviews for one of the El Paso news- 
papers, and was one of the officers of the Civic Improvement League. 
After traveling in Mexico and Canada, she came to San Diego in 
1906, where she became the organizing Regent of the San Diego 
Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and one of 
the organizers, and first treasurer, of the San Diego Woman's Press 
Club, of which she is now president. In 1911 she went on a Medi- 
terranean cruise, and two years later travelled in China and Japan. 



AT LAST I KNOW LIFE 

I once was twenty, 

But I did not know life. 

I was filled with beautiful ideals, 

I did not know life. 

I met Adventure, 

He was clothed in gold and the aureole of dawn was about 

him. 
He touched my hand : 
I thrilled! 

He leaned to touch my lips, 

With the kiss I saw the skull's grin through the radiance. 
I shuddered back and all was emptiness. 
I questioned life. 

I met Love. 

He was a flame of light and the warmth of the morning sun 

was about him. 
He folded me in his glance : 
I was enraptured ! 

He held me close and blinded me with his glory. 
I was translated, empowered, magnified! 
I adored life. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 115 

I opened my eyes. 

Love's glance wandered, his look was empty. 

I clutched him to me — he pushed away. 

I looked again and saw that Love was gone. 

I fell inert, all was black ! 

I hated life. 

I met a Comrade. 

He looked into my eyes and read my soul : 

He saw the disillusionment, the heartache. 

Understanding he lay his arm across my shoulder, 

And so, walking, I was content. 

I accepted life. 

I met Death. 

Gray, sinister, unyielding, he took my Comrade. 

My very soul rebelled ! 

But, as I lifted my voice to protest. 

Death looked back. 

And in his eyes, dull, fateful, gleamed a promise. 

At last, I know life. 

WHERE GOD WALKS 

A wide, shallow saucer of bleached sand ; over it a bowl — 
gray, like dulled silver. The plain is marked by gaunt, 
rigid cactus and scattered groups of olive-gray bush. 

There is no sound, no color. 

There are great reaches, but no distance: everything seems 
equally near, equally far, even to the edge, where the 
bowl and saucer touch rigid lips in a frozen kiss. 

There are no perspectives, for there are no shadows. 

It is the heart of infinitude. 

Slowly the colorless air turns violet, faint at first, then deep- 
ening ; then it fades into rose. The bowl is no longer 
gray ; it has turned a delicate, apple-leaf green. 



116 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

The silence grows deeper ; life itself seems not to be. 

On the eastern rim a pale primrose light appears — a ghost of 
light. It spreads upward, onward. 

A murmur runs through the air; the hush is broken. It is 
the silences whispering. 

A gleaming band of ribbon stretches half round the rim. 

The shadows come, running fast to meet the day. 

From afar comes the shrill call of the cicada; a lizard scur- 
ries across the sand. 

Up leaps the sun ! 
It is the desert. 

Caroline K at her in e Franklin 

Mrs. Franklin is a native of San Diego, being the eldest daughter 
of Doctor and Mrs. P. C. Remondino. In 1897 she was married to 
Berte V. Franklin. She comes naturally by her desire to write, her 
father being one of the well-known literary men of California. 

About three years ago, Burke W. Jenkins, an ex-editor of the 
Frank A. Munsey staff, became a patient of Dr. Franklin, and 
during the friendship which ensued the doctor told Mr. Jenkins 
that Mrs. Franklin had written some short stories. Mr. Jenkins 
voluteered to criticize the stories and he gave Mrs. Franklin such 
encouragement that she decided to follow her original impulse, 
which was to write a novel about the hero of the sketches which 
Mr. Jenkins had criticized. This novel, "Smiley," is the story of 
an orphan whose mother, through shock, has been deprived of her 
memory. It tells of the boy's struggles, his optimism, and is full 
of his philosophy of life. 

Her next novel is "The Cup of Human Kindness." Of it Miss 
Elizabeth Squier, one of the foremost Eastern critics, says: 

"This is the story of a very quaint and entertaining child, much 
on the order of 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,' yet quite a fresh and 
different type of character, ivhose conversations <with her doll tell 
the greater part of the narrative. It is a story for groivn-up people 
nvho have not lost entirely their faith in human nature and ivho 
vuill vjant their children to read it for the lesson it entertainingly 
teaches. More ivorldly people ivill read it ivith a nevj realization 
of the poiver nuhich a simple belief in the goodness of others gives." 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 117 

Frederick W. Lawrence, one of the Hearst editors, also writes : 
"I do not hesitate to say that this siueet and ^wholesome story of 
an unusual child luho groivs to be a 'very unusual young ivoman, 
ivill appeal to the heart of the American people just as it has ap- 
pealed to my oivn heart. I am ivhat people call 'sophisticated,' but 
I am not so much sophisticated that a little lump did not come into 
my throat and remain there during the time I was reading this 
story." 

Mrs. Franklin has completed other novels, "Just You" and 
"Morning Star," and is at work upon others. The scenes of most 
of her work are laid in Southern California, which will add to 
their interest among Californians, Mrs. Franklin is a member of 
the Woman's Press Club, and also of the San Diego Poetry Club. 

The following is the fourth chapter of "Just You" : 

The day had been one of oppressive heat — one of those 
fortunately rare days when the wind blows dry and hot from 
the desert beyond the eastern mountains, and when the full 
moon arose the sky was cloudless, while the wind, now 
cooler, abated somewhat, though still dry and parching. 

The curtains fluttered fitfully in the otherwise quiet room, 
and the ring of light the shaded lamp cast upon the table by 
which Jane Ashton sat made a picture hard for her husband 
ever to forget. 

A spasm of anguish flashed over his troubled face. She 
looked up as his eyes rested upon her. An uncomfortable 
silence followed as both tried to master their feelings. The 
man it was who first spoke : 

"Come, dear, come," said Newton Ashton chokingly as he 
held out his wife's wrap and looked down at her tenderly 
while she placed the little leather shoes back in the basket 
and covered them up with a dainty silk coverlet. 

She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes — eyes that for 
years had only known love and laughter — filled with tears. 
Then she arose and threw her arms about his neck and shook 
convulsively as she sobbed again her heart-sorrow at the loss 
of their only child — their little daughter who had just learned 
to lisp in baby language. 

''Night and loneliness are forever companions," he said 
huskily as they stepped out into the night. 

He tried his best to soothe and comfort her as they walked 
toward the park they both loved. Gradually her sobbing 



118 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

ceased ; she became quiet, and when they reached a secluded 
spot where the shadows hid them from the curious passers-by, 
she gave a sigh of relief. 

Not noticing that there was another occupant, a shabbily- 
clad woman, sitting at the further end of the long bench, he 
drew his wife gently to the seat and said tenderly : 

"Let us rest here for a little while, Jane. You are tired 
and here we can talk things over quietly." 

The shabbily-clad woman at the far end of the bench 
apparently was too engrossed in her own sorrows to more 
than notice the new comers, for she unconsciously muttered 
to herself : 

"Why am I alone?" 

Then she gave a quick start and listened eagerly as she 
heard the familiar name of "Jane" from the man at the 
other end of the bench — her name and the name of her baby 
girl. 

"Jane," the man said lovingly, as he drew his wife's head 
down on his shoulder and held her close, "we must make up 
our minds not to go through this nerve-racking, heart-break- 
ing scene every evening. It will kill us. God has sent us this 
trial for some good reason." His voice broke. "Try and 
be a little woman and bear your sorrow, our sorrow." Then 
he kissed the tear-stained cheek again and again. 

"Yes, darling, I know," she answered, her slim fingers rest- 
ing on his arm, "but we had planned and planned : loved and 
wanted her so, so much. Think, Newton," she continued, 
"how many people have children and are allowed to keep 
them. People who really cannot afford to take care of them." 

A shiver ran through the ragged figure who now rubbed 
the palms of her hands together nervously as she listened in- 
tently from her unnoted vantage point at the far end of the 
bench, and then, as the couple arose and walked slowly away, 
she too left her secluded corner and cautiously followed — 
followed them all the way to their destination and heard the 
woman say in tender, pleading tones like a child: 

"I cannot go in yet, not yet. I just cannot. I want to 
stay out in the night air until I feel sleepy. Just. Just a 
little while longer." 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 119 

"All right, Jane," he replied. "We'll walk for a little 
longer, but you know I must be down town very early in 
the morning." 

She seemed to rouse herself. "I know, dear, but I cannot 
bear to go home, so please, please let us walk for a little 
while." 

They walked on down the street while the woman in rags 
hurried past them and when she turned the corner of the 
block she broke into a run and did not stop until she had 
reached her room in the attic of a tenement. 

Her face grew a sickly white, her teeth chattered and her 
hand trembled as she lighted the solitary candle in her pov- 
erty-stricken room. Then she went to the cot in the far cor- 
ner and picked up a baby — her baby girl, hardly four weeks 
old. The little one gave a feeble cry and as the woman 
cuddled the baby carefully in the triangle made by her 
mother-arm, it sank back into a restless sleep. Then, kiss- 
ing her baby tenderly, very tenderly, the weary little woman 
whispered as she rested for a moment in the rickety rocker, 
her eyes caressing the little being through her wet lashes : 

"Mother is going to give you to someone who will be 
kind, very kind to you and will love you, love you, love you 
nearly as much as I love you," and then her voice which had 
become hoarse, broke into a sob and her tears, falling on the 
pale, upturned face of the sleeping infant, awoke the child 
and it began to cry in a feeble, pitiful whimper. Then the 
mother-heart seemed to break. 

"It is best! It is best! I know it is best! I will! I 
must!" She groaned as she crossed the room and laid the 
child down. Then she went over to the old dresser, opened 
the top drawer ; searched through its contents and took out a 
piece of paper and a stub of a lead pencil and hastily wrote a 
note, a very short note. Picking the child up carefully, she 
wrapped the infant in a piece of old cotton blanket, fastening 
the note with a pin. She hugged her treasure tight to her 
breast, passed out of the room into the hall, down the steep, 
narrow stairs and out into the night. 

With the noises of a great city falling about her like the 
roar of the sea, she hastened, unmindful of everything save 



120 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

the plan she had made, and it was with a quick, short sigh 
of relief that she saw the couple walking towards the far end 
of the block. She stole up their front steps and lovingly de- 
posited her burden — her all — her baby girl — at their front 
door and then, glancing furtively about, she crept down into 
the shadows and hid where she might watch the doorway 
and their return. 

As Newton and Jane Ashton passed their home they heard 
a cry — a baby cry. She stopped him with a little shuddering 
moan and a tug at his arm and asked hysterically, her eyes 
staring : 

"Newton, do you hear that?" 

"Yes, dear," he replied, the grim line about his lips twist- 
ing a little. 

"Well," she continued nervously, her words tumbling over 
one another, "that is what I hear all of the time when I am 
alone and you tell me it is my nerves, and now, you admit 
that you also hear it." She clung to her husband, trembling 
in every muscle and he tried to soothe her as they slowly con- 
tinued their walk while the other little mother crouched 
down in misery. 

But the crying grew louder and the wife's nerves seemed 
to snap — snap like the strings of a highly tuned violin. She 
suddenly broke loose from her husband and ran towards the 
house. The cry grew louder as she drew near. The woman 
in rags crossed the street and stood in the shadow of a large 
tree and eagerly watched. 

"Newton," shrieked Jane Ashton, "come quick! Come 
quick!" She lifted the baby very tenderly but held it tightly 
while her husband fumblingly unlocked the door and as they 
entered the house Jane Ashton unfastened the tattered 
blanket and held the tiny being even closer with a hungry 
grasp, while a white face with a pair of burning eyes peered 
from the shadows and saw the man take the note and read it 
and then hand it to his wife. 

The door closed. A light gleamed in an upper room and 
the watcher saw the woman fold the little tattered cotton 
blanket, pin the note back upon it and then cross over to 
the window and pull down the shades. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 121 

Frank Arthur French 

THE FLUME- WALKER 

In California, where water is often brought in wooden flumes 
over long distances, the "flume walker" is necessary in order that 
he may detect and repair breakages, which might cause great 
damage, as well as the loss of the necessary water. 

He walks with God who walks the flume 

In clouds dream-weft, 

Along the narrow path his feet have worn 

By day above the tallest eucalyptus plumes, — 

At night along the canyon's rugged breasts. 

A carpet of the coolest moss for him is laid 

Of maidenhair and violets pale shade-drawn 

To drench their petals in the drip and gloom 

Beneath the rotting beams and hutments of his bridge. 

Serene he walks beside the flume 

Nor dreams of these nor sees all this. 

His gaze is lifted far beyond the mesa's rim. 

Beyond the vineyards heavy in fruit he sees 

Brown hills grown browner in the autumn noons, 

Baked by the heat of tropic suns, 

Slaked by no kindly hand. 

His soul leaps out beyond the valley's dip and rise 

To one interstice in the mist-veiled peaks 

Where walls of stone hold back the flood emprise. 

He knows he guards the source of life held there 

Beyond the distant hills, beyond the purple bloom — 

And in his heart a thousand birds give song. 

Wing shod he walks with God who walks the flume ! 

THE WIRELESS BUILDER 

He did his part 

Who took no thought of self. 

But mounting fearless in the swaying winds 

Stood steadfast at his task's behest 

Welding with bolts of steel boom upon boom 

To build vast towers of speech 



122 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

To conquer Space, 

To shout the Vanquishment of Kings, 

To herald New Democracies. 

This was his Dream. 

Who called? 'Twas Death! 

He heard, and answering fell to earth 

A broken, formless thing. 

Out on the vibrant waves of ether 
A CT}' of clear, far triumph rang! 
Bej^ond the little spheres of destiny 
His Soul had soared, and soaring 
Turned to laugh 
At what was once 

A MAN! 



SPRINGTIME ON THE SOMME 

The battlefield was torn and scarred 
From bursting mine and sunken pit. 
A flying column swept across 
And left in ashes, gas and flame 
All that was once a shouting throng 
Of bravery and youth and song. . . . 

Charred stumps of poplars sentineled the hills. 
Long, writhing lanes splotched deep with red 
Veined the wild labyrinths of the dead: 
And birds which came to build again 
Found only hollows in strange form 
Strewn bleached and grinning on the ground. 

One there had been who always yearned 

To send his message out in song. 

His only cry the world had heard 

Was "On! Take the trench ! On! On!!" 

Heedless he led the charge, and then — 

A broken sword was all of him. . . . 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 123 

Out of a skull that lay secure 

Within the shelter of a twisted mound 

A bird with flaming throat and golden wing 

Brought warbling her full brood. 

And now the battlefield is filled with song 

Triumphant song of him who yearned to sing ! 

THE CORRAL 

Shoulder to shoulder the impatient herd 

Pressed close against the bars of their corral 

Nosing and nudging, each to each, lest one should soonest 

Burst his prison gate and joyously stampede 

Across the shimmering miles of verdure just beyond. 

So bent were they on freedom that they never knew 
Beneath their eager, restless feet grew herbage 
Sweeter than the undulating green of hills 
Thick grown with stinging thistles, cruel cactus thorn, 
For they were safely guarded by confines they abhorred. 

But bands of hungry ponies grazing on the distant range. 
Gazed longingly upon the well-fed herd imprisoned in the 
pound ! 

George Fuller 

Judge George Fuller, now of Los Angeles, but a resident of San 
Diego for nearly thirty years, coming there from New York City 
in 1886, is a lawyer by profession, filling a place on the bench of 
the Superior Court of San Diego County by appointment by the 
Governor in the year 1900, and practicing his profession before and 
after this in San Diego and Los Angeles. Judge Fuller has never 
been engaged in literary pursuits, nor has he written any other verse 
than these sonnets, for publication, but his forceful and elegant 
prose writings in law and public affairs now and then give some 
suggestion that there lurk within his nature poetic thought and 
fancy; and it was no surprise to his friends that these sonnets on 
the theme of Southern California should appear from his pen. 



124 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

INTRODUCTORY COMMENT, By Yorick 
\^The folloiuing comment is such a lucid and clear explanation of 
the sonnet form of verse, and is also so fine an example of the ivork 
of Yorick, in his "On the Margin" page in the San Diego Union, 
that I am glad to give it place here. — Editor.] 

POETS WHOSE SONG IS FOURTEEN LINES LONG 

The sonnet is an exceedingly difficult verse form. 
I know because I have tried it — and failed. Yet the 
rules for making a sonnet are very simple — but they 
are as inflexible as any that govern the most exact- 
ing and intricate game of solitaire. If you don't be- 
lieve me try your own hand at the construction of a 
pure or Italian sonnet. Here's the formula ; Four- 
teen iambic pentameters; fourteen five-accent lines of 
ten syllables each; divided metrically into two parts, 
the first or octave — or octet — of eight lines, riming 
a-b'b-a-a-b-b-a, the remaining six lines, the sextet, 
riming in any fashion on either two or three ter- 
minals, as, c-d-c-d-c-d, or c-d-e-e-d-c. Your octave 
must end with a period and must contain the 
statement or description from which the sextet 
draws the conclusion or reflection. This logical 
arrangement may be violated as it was violated by 
Milton and Wordsworth, who sometimes confine the 
conclusion to the two or three closing lines, or even 
let the reader draw his own conclusion. This is not 
the pure Italian form, however, and invariably the 
best effect is obtained when the logical divisions cor- 
respond nearly to the metrical divisions. 

THE LEGEND OF A SONNET 

Or you might try the irregular or Shakespearean 
sonnet of three alternately riming quatrains and a 
closing couplet, with this sort of rime scheme : abab, 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 125 

cdcd, efef, gg. Try it on the subject with which you 
are most familiar, and see if you can produce some- 
thing like this one, "On the Life and Death of Sar- 
danapalus," by young Henry Howard, Earl of Sur- 
rey, who with Sir Thomas Watt introduced the son- 
net form into EngUsh verse early in the sixteenth cen- 
tury: 

The Assyrian in peace, with foul desire 

And filthy lusts that stained his regal heart, 
In war, that should set princely hearts on fire, 

Did yield, vanquisht for want of martial art. 
The dint of swords from kisses seemed strange. 

And harder than his lady's side his targe, 
From gluttons' feasts to soldiers' fare a change. 

His helmet, far above a garland's charge ; 
Who scarce the name of manhood did retain. 

Drenched in sloth and womanish delight. 
Feeble of spirit, impatient of pain, 

When he had lost his honor and his right — 
Proud time of wealth, in storms appalled with dread, 
Murdered himself to show some manful deed. 

Poor Surrey! fatal sonnet! if the legend be true, 
that Henry VIII on his deathbed resenting the per- 
sonal allusion to himself which malicious courtiers, 
seeking the downfall of the Howards, father and son, 
as they had compassed the tragedy of Catherine of 
that ilk, signed the warrant that sent the noblest 
youth in England to the Tower Hill, and the heads- 
man. But, constructively a traitor, because he had 
approved the ambition of his father, the Duke of 
Norfolk, to mount the throne of the Tudors, and 
bore the arms of Edward the Confessor with his own 
in silent claim of the heirship of his house to the 
sceptre, it seems doubtful that a mere sonnet, even if 



126 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

not in the best form and substance, could have In- 
censed a monarch, even though "drenched in sloth 
and womanish delight," to such extremity. Neither 
is the political inference sufficiently pointed to merit 
a special dispensation of Henry's wrath. It would 
seem that the Howards of that and the succeeding 
generation were given to the habit of treason; for the 
history tells us that Elizabeth, daughter and suc- 
cessor of Henry, had to send Thomas Howard, 
fourth Duke of Norfolk and son of Surrey, to the 
block for conspiring to achieve that same Howard- 
coveted throne by a marriage with Mary Queen of 
Scots. Sonneteering was only a diversion with the 
Howards ; but treason was, evidently, their vocation. 

DESPAIR AND DEFIANCE 
Here is one of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sonnets 
that might have been written yesterday from the in- 
spiration of the Nation's wrath and hate, engender- 
ing in the poet's heart a Grief to weep in the lap of 
Despair: 

Not that the earth is changing, O my God! 

Not that the seasons totter in their walk — 

Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 
Seethes ever as a wine press ever trod — 
Not therefore are we certain that the rod 

Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world ; though now 

Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, 
So many kings; not therefore, O my God! 

But because Man is parceled out in men 

To-day ; because for any wrongful blow 

No man not stricken asks, "I would be told 
Why thou dost this ;" but his heart whispers then, 

"He is he, I am I." By this we know 

That our earth falls asunder, being old. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 127 

How different Henley's outcry in Vae Victis : 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 

I have not winced nor cried aloud, 
Under the bludgeonings of chance 

My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll ; 

I am the master of my fate ; 
I am the captain of my soul. 

This is the creed of modern individualism inter- 
preted by two poets — the one is despondent abnega- 
tion, the other is defiant despair. And neither be- 
lieves in the possibility of a brotherhood that shall 
furl the battle flags in the federation of the world 
or still the thunder of the captains and the shouting. 

IN PRAISE OF SAN DIEGO 

Perhaps you question why I have chosen this sub- 
ject for such a lengthy discourse. Well, aside from 
the self-interest of the theme, I am constrained to 
dwell on it because Judge George Fuller of San 
Diego has written a most excellent little poem in this 
mode in praise of the perennial beauty of the environ- 
ment within which he lives. It is somewhat "irregu- 
lar" as to the rule of rime, but its pentameters march 
with stately stride to the melodious phrasing of the 
flowering thought; and if the sextet is not wholly 
given over to the "conclusion or reflection" the sonnet 
loses nothing of the fullness of its meaning or the 
completeness of its intention. Here is Judge Fuller's 
sonnet on — 



128 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

SAN DIEGO 

An azure arch, with irised bordure set ; 

A blazing sun, whose conq'ring beams, far flung 

O'er mountain, mesa, vale and shore, tho' hung 

With purple mists, whose changing shadows fret 

The distant hills, a golden sheen spread yet 

From Cuyamaca's peak to Loma's wall; 

A sun that beautifies and brightens all, — 

And kissing warm the sea-wind blithe, swift met 

As eager o'er the strand she leaps, his call 

Confessed, soft airs ambrosial breeds, that youth 

Protract and lusty age prolong, while all 

That breathe their zephyrs sweet, and list their sooth 

Aeolian song, all other lands forget. 

Or, seeing them no more, feel no regret. 

CONCENTRATED POESY 

The octave of a sonnet is an intaglio ; the sextet is 
a cameo. The sonnet itself may be likened to the 
picture of a beautiful landscape reflected in a drop 
of dew on a rose leaf. The writing of a sonnet is the 
intellectual exercise of a poet in which he subor- 
dinates his emotion to his sense of proportion and 
symmetry, measuring his fancy to fit the restricted 
tapestry of his imagination. There are not a dozen 
perfect sonnets in literature; although there are a 
score that are more beautifully poetical in their ir- 
regularity than those that were fashioned for the 
matrices of Petrarch and Heredia. And I believe 
that San Diego may feel proud of her reflection in 
the mirror of Judge Fuller's sonnet. I am sure that 
she may be honestly flattered by the sincerity of the 
poet's praise. 

Two other Southern California descriptive son- 
nets by Judge Fuller, follow : 




MEMORIAL TO FRAY JUNIPERO SERRA, FOUNDER OF THE 
FRANCISCAN MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA 






FOREIGN AND DOMKvSTIC BUILDING, THE CHAPEL FRONT 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 129 

HOTEL DEL CORONADO 

Between two waters blue, thou sit'st In state, 

With smiling orient face, and wings like hands 

That seem to say "we welcome your commands," — 

The one inviting towards the Dresden plate, 

The other beck'ning where the dancers wait; 

While round on every side, the traveler's glance 

Such panorama views as ne'er romance 

Portrayed, nor all earth's beauteous climes can mate; 

O'er sea he looks where namesake islands stand ; 

O'er crescent bay a range his vision bounds, 

With serrate summit. Dropping towards the strand 

His gaze, where San Diego's hum resounds. 

He marks the nautic flags of every land. 

Then sees the birdmen rise o'er polo grounds. 

LOS ANGELES 

A valley rich with orange, nut and vine; 

A tranquil sea, with sail-inviting shore ; 

A mountain wall that lifts its summit hoar 

Above a forest green of oak and pine. 

And zigzag trails that scale its bold incline; 

A checkered sweep of velvet lawn, that fills 

A rim of gently undulating hills, 

Where umbrose palm and mantling rose entwine. 

Mid these, a modern city's towers rise, — 

Tall hostelries, and taller haunts of trade; 

A city full of men of great emprise ; 

Streets animate with fashion, and parade 

Of deft machine; a city smart that vies 

With countryside, the two in pomp arrayed. 

James R, Gage 

A NIGHT Wr BURNS 

Come brithers, let us a' be there, 
The twenty-fifth of Januar, 
To lilt a song or wail a prayer : 
An' drop a tear for Robin. 



130 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Ah, Robin "dear departed shade," 
Though thou hast lang been lowly laid, 
Till thine beside, our bed is made ; 
We'll smile and sing of Robin. 

Ye cam to's when the year was young. 
Ye brought to ilka month a tongue, 
To every tune by season sung 
A song was set by Robin. 

Na cheil was left of those who dwal. 
In lowly hut or lairdly hall, 
Na hour w^as there amang the twal 
But had a blink f ra Robin. 

The mousie o' the stibble field, 
The daisy o' the random bield, 
Puir Mailie standing in her shield, 
A' wish and wait for Robin. 

The hum that floats fra hawthorn dells, 
The anthem ocean grandly swells. 
The chimes that ring on heather bells. 
Are resonant o' Robin. 

The lintwhite singing fra her tree, 
The paitrich whirring wild and free, 
The cushat doo upon the lea, 

Ca' "Robin, Robin, Robin!" 

The cotter by his ingle side, 
Leal Davoc wi' his bonnie bride, 
O'Shanter on his midnight ride, 
A' bleeze at name o' Robin. 

In mirth, in grief, didst thou rejoice. 
Thy song burst forth beyond thy choice. 
Of Nature's heart thou wert the voice, 
All sing and weep through Robin. 

Where thou art gone let ithers tell. 
But while in human hearts ye dwell, 
I wad believe it for mysel, 

Gude will be guid to Robin. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 131 

THE WOLF'S APPEAL TO DUGALD CAMPBELL* 

Ah Dugald, I am sad to hear 

That 'gainst the wolves their lives you swear, 

And handle much wanchancie gear 

To work their ruin : 
And right and left you hourly speir 

For their undoin'. 



*In the late '70's there came from the Highlands of Scotland a 
family of Campbells, one of ivhich, a son, ivas the Dugald herein 
addressed. They settled upon the banks of the Missouri ri'uer in 
Emmons county, of the then Territory of Dakota. The county itself 
constituted a domain approaching in size the Scotland they had 
just left. Being shepherds and the sons of shepherds, it ivas natural 
that they should resume their former occupation in a land that 
promised such bountiful returns. Great oceans of grass, lush and 
nutritious , lay spread out for miles on e'very side. The climate ivas 
healthful, the sun shone, the floivers bloomed in profusion, the birds 
sang and all looked like a new Canaan to the delighted Scotchmen. 
They established two ranches, putting se'veral thousands of sheep 
on each. The first results were most satisfactory, the ewes bleated, 
the lambs gamboled and capered, the powers bloomed, the birds 
sang, and it looked as though nothing could ever becloud so fair 
a scene. 

But, alas, the chemist has not yet appeared who is capable of 
compounding a high-grade ointment without the aid of the fly. So 
is chanced in this case. Perhaps Florals wonderful profusion blinded 
Dugald to the fact Fauna had ever had existence there. Be that as 
it may, the fact remains that when suddenly from some unknown 
source the wolf appeared, the surprise was only equalled by the 
indignation of the Campbell contingent. The wolf did not act 
discreetly ; he emphasized his offense by showing the utter contempt 
in which he held sheep. His conduct implied that he regarded them 
as childish and simple, fit for nothing unless it might be for use in 
lessening the high cost of living. Dugald was thrown into a tower- 
ing rage, and his proceedings indicated that he proposed to show 
Mr. Wolf that "the Campbells were coming," and coming mighty 
fast. He called indignation meetings, he induced the county 
authorities to make appropriations for the purchase of various 
poisons, he inspected all sorts of traps and snares for capture, he 
established an entente with every man in the country who had sheep. 



132 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

But laddie, ere you work your will 
Ilk mither wolf and whelp to kill, 
And pack them aff for good or ill 

To purgatory; 
Just lend a lug and hold you still 

To hear a story. 

Lang syne, when ye were 'yont the Tweed, 

Nor ever entered it your heid 

To hither come your flocks to feed — 

All questions scorning — 
This land was mine and my blest breed 

From Time's first morning. 

If ancient family trees be ta'en, 
Ere rose a shaft on Shinar's plain 
My blood is of primeval strain 

With lineage clear ; 
I am an older man than Cain ; 

By maist a year. 

Great nations, I've seen rise and sink, 
And topple o'er Oblivion's brink ; 
To leave in History's chain no link 

To fix their name; 
Na star in all the heavens to blink 
Their pride or shame. 



he appointed Wolf Days much as the Exposition gentlemen appoint 
Authors' Days, though not precisely for the same purpose. In short 
it looked as though things ivere conspiring to give Brer Wolf what 
slangy folk might call a run for his money. The ivolf had no 
money to fool aivay, at running or otherivise. In the emergency he 
did <what I regard as both a ivise and a bold thing. He sought for 
the head of the aggressors, and ivhen he found it to be Dug aid 
Campbell, like an honest man he made no attempt at evasion, no 
long-ivinded diplomatic comings and goings, but in flat-footed terms 
he defined his status and put it up to Dugald to digest it. Was his 
claim just, and ivas his request unreasonable? 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 133 

Yet, safe through wreck of these I've steered, 
While mony a bonnie sheep I've sheared ; 
By quaking shepherds I've been feared 

As Nature's watchman; 
Why should I then be called misleared 

By drouthy Scotchman ? 

Na, na, my trusty fier, I ken 
Your will is good like ither men 
To take my precious life, but then 

I'm not sifugled ; 
I still need sheep from out your pen, 

My raucle Dugald. 

Sae let us kindly deal wi' ither, 
(I love ye like a very brither) 
Then do not fly into a swither 

At my request. 
But send me out a plump, fat wether. 

And ye'll be blest. 

Think ye if I were you, my lad. 
And ye were roaming weak and sad. 
While famishing wi' hunger mad 

Amang your pals; 
I'd hedge in ilka sheep I had 

Wi' curst corrals? 

Na, na, I'm free and proud to own 
My heart's not made of sic whinstone ; 
No sooner would I hear ye groan, 

While filled I am, 
Than quickly to your side I'm flown 

To bring a lamb. 

Just treat me thus and it will lend 
A luster to the life ye'll spend ; 
Our shameful warfare it will end. 

And bridge the gulf, 
Enabling me to write, Your Friend, 

Immortal Wolf. 



134 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Bertha Lowry Gwynne 

Mrs. Thomas Gwynne has made writing short stories and poems 
her forte for some years. She has published in Everybody's, 
Country Life in America, The Smart Set and many other maga- 
zines, and is a regular contributor of humorous and satirical articles 
to Life. 

THE TAIL OF TRUSTY JAKE 

They call me Old Veracity 

I hail from Ballarat ; 
I've foUered all the minin' booms 

From Nome to Rawhide Flat. 

'Twas on the trail to Tonopah 

I first met Trusty Jake, 
Pinned underneath a slide o' rock 

Lay that pore rattlesnake. 

And when I extricated him 

With joy I thought he'd bust; 
You never see a critter show 

Sich gratitude and trust. 

Jake foUered me on all my trips 

Prospectin', fur and near; 
And talk of brains ! That reptyle skinned 

A minin' engineer! 

He p'inted out the richest leads — 

We cashed fur quite a sum. 
And when I hit fur Ballarat 

Why, Trusty Jake he come. 

We staid in town fur most a week 

A-takin' in the sights; 
We bucked the wheel at Faro Pete's, 

And pulled off seven fights. 

I 'bout decided then to go, 

We'd still a hefty roll. 
I knowed that if we tarried there 

It would be blew or stole. 

Well, shore enough, that very night — 
The clock was strikin' one — 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 135 

I waked and seen two burglars bold, 

And each one had a gun ! 
I lay thar jist plumb paralysed 

Till I gits a wink from Jake ; 
(I knowed no pizen bunch o' thieves 

Could circumvent that snake. ) 

AND THEN 

A noise come from the winder sill 
That made them burglars stop. 
Jake's faithful tail was hangin' out 
A-rattlin' fur a cop ! 

Minnie Johnson Hardy 

Minnie Johnson Hardy, wife of the late Robert Craig Hardy, 
was born in the small country village of Ceresco, in the great corn 
belt of Eastern Nebraska. Her father, William H. Johnson, came 
from England. He was a musician, scholar and philosopher. 

Mrs. Hardy, like her father and husband, is a great lover of 
music and literature, but says, as did Marcus Antonius, she "has 
neither wit nor words, nor worth, action nor utterance, nor the 
power of speech." But she has learned to love and enjoy God's 
great open country west of the Rocky Mountains, so that she can, 
from her own experience, appreciate "California, Romantic and 
Beautiful," and "Arizona, the Wonderland of the West." 

Mrs. Hardy regrets that she does not have a coat of arms, as she 
would like to have engraved upon it these words, "The World is 
my Country and to do good is my Religion." 

SAN DIEGO AND THE EXPOSITION AS SEEN 
FROM THE TOWER AT SUNSET 
Oh, august place, Oh, fairyland! 
Of beauty rare, and splendour grand. 
What pageantry of fragrant bloom. 
From Nature's own mysterious loom 
The laboring elements have wrought. 
And now enshrined within our hearts. 
And memory dear will ever be 
This Paradise beside the sea. 
The plumy pepper greets the breeze 
Which sways the eucalyptus trees. 
Their nodding branches gaily meet, 
And rustling-murmur music sweet, 



136 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Like chords divine, while feathered throats 
Join in the song. Their golden notes 
Echo the praises which we know 
Are doubly due thee, San Diego. 

These lovely flowers of rainbow hue, 
These brilliant lights like sparkling dew, 
These Spanish towers, this fern-strewn glen 
Alas ! Too grand for mortal pen. 
Here have the Muses delved and sowed, 
Here kindly Fortune has bestowed 
Her richest gifts from Plenty's hand. 
On San Diego's blossom land. 

The Spaniards dreamed in days of old, 
Of earth's great treasure, shining gold ; 
But small in knowledge, poor in faith. 
In vain they searched in every place ; 
But hope and work w4th one accord. 
Must ever reap a just reward. 
And now is seen 'neath leaves of green. 
The gold of which the Spaniards dreamed. 

Now as the sun sinks in the West, 
A blissful messenger of rest 
Comes to me, as through a mist 
Of happy tears, the world seems kissed 
By Angels' feet. A crimson light 
Floods earth and sky, and in delight 
My heart beats fast, my soul soars free 
In tune with God's own harmony. 

Oh, friends who come from far and near, 

A song of praise to Pioneer 

I would propose. With courage blessed 

He labored long, and with success 

His task is crowned, the richest gem 

In fair Columbia's diadem. 

Our thanks to those who built the Fair 

And now invite you, everywhere 

And countless thousands yet to be — 

To come and dwell beside the sea. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 137 

Frederick Hollingsworth 

Frederick Hollingsworth is a lineal descendant of the English 
Hollingsworth. He was born on a farm near Iowa City, Iowa. 
When he was eight years old his parents moved from Iowa and set- 
tled at Blair, Washington County, Nebraska, where he received a 
common school education, but he neither graduated nor received a 
literary training. At the age of seventeen he became, like Edison, 
a newsboy on a passenger train. Later he became fireman, and 
then locomotive engineer, which occupation he followed for a num- 
ber of years. He came to San Diego in 1906, where the beauties that 
surrounded him inspired him to write verse. 



SAN DIEGO 

Fair San Diego city, 

On San Diego's Bay, 
Is like a gay theatre, 

Staged for a merry play. 

The business part the parquet 
Down on the level ground, 

While rising tiers behind it, 
Fine homes are circled round. 

And farther up the hillside. 
Just like a flight of stairs. 

The scene is viewed from windows, 
As if from opera chairs. 

The balcony the hillcrest, 

An unobstructed view, 
And circling round the ocean, 

That sets the scene in blue. 

The streets are lined with flowers, 
Extending back for miles, 

The street cars serve as ushers. 
That bring you down the aisles. 

The stage is on the harbor, 
Where boats glide to and fro, 

Huge battleships and sailing craft, 
With submarines below. 



138 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

With daring airships soaring, 

Included in the scene, 
A finer moving picture 

Was never throw^n on screen. 

All day the show's in progress 

In this enchanted town, 
'Till night hides sun in ocean, 

And rolls the curtain down. 

MY MOTHER 

Who was the first good friend I knew 
In early youth when friends were few, 
And unto me was ever true? 

My Mother. 

Who watched o'er me with tender care, 
Who washed my face and brushed my hair 
And for my welfare said a prayer ? 

My Mother. 

Who grieved with me when I was sad 
Who plead with me when I was bad, 
And laughed with me when I was glad? 

My Mother. 

Who was a friend to all the boys 
That came to share my j^outhful joys 
And ne'er complained about the noise ? 

My Mother. 

Who spoke to me of future days. 
Who warned me of life's evil waj^s 
That she might always sing my praise? 
My Mother. 

Who ever since my day of birth. 
Has always proved in sterling worth 
The dearest friend to me on earth ? 

My Mother. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 139 

THE LONELY WOLF 

Late at night when all is still, 

There comes upon the midnight air, 

A plaintive wail from distant hill, 
A coyote's message of despair. 

Perhaps he wishes we were friends. 
That he might romp about our door, 

So unto us this message sends. 
As he has often done before. 

With not a friend in all the land. 
At night he skulks with restless eye, 

He knows we do not understand, 
That he must either steal or die. 

Pursued and hunted everywhere. 
When all the world should gladly give, 

To him that cries in deep despair, 
And begs for just a chance to live. 

The World moves on we know not why. 
And each on Earth some mission fills. 

We're born to live and then to die, 
E'en wolves that howl on lonely hills. 



Eli Lundy Huggins 



General Huggins was born in Schuyler County, Illinois, August 
1, 1842. He became a private and corporal of Company E, Second 
Minnesota Infantry, July 5, 1861-July 14, 1864. After service in 
the artillery, he was transferred to the Second Cavalry, April 11, 
1879; became Major January 13, 1879. In February, 1903, he was 
made Brigadier-General. He was thrice wounded at Chickamauga, 
and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, February 27, 
1894, "for most distinguished gallantry in action against the Oglala 
Sioux Indians near O'Fallon's Creek, Montana, April 1, 1880." It 
was General Huggins who received the surrender of Rain-in-the- 
Face, the slayer of Custer, and 800 other Sioux, in October, 1880. 
He was retired at his own request after forty-two years of service, 
February 23, 1903. His volume of poems, "Winona: A Dakota 
Legend and Other Poems," was published in 1890. He also con- 
tributed a novel to the Overland Monthly. The following sonnets 
were written in San Diego where he has resided for the last ten 
years. 



140 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

TO A FAIR SAN DIEGAN 

Why blooms the fairest flower 'neath rosy skies, 
Where all is bloom and fragrance ? Why unfold 
Here, where the nectar that its petals hold, 

Amid the orange groves neglected lies, 

And all its perfume all unheeded dies! 

And thou dear maid with wealth of love untold, 
More precious far than mines of gems or gold. 

Why linger longer 'mid these listless eyes ? 

O with thy voice and smile ineffable. 
And eyes so meet for sympathetic tears. 
Seek some sad land oppressed by grief and fears, 

A bright consoling angel there to dwell. 

Fly ere thy robes are wet with honey dew, 

And thine own sweetness clo5^s thee through and through. 

English version of a Spanish sonnet written more 
than three hundred years ago by Lope de Vega.t 

Pepita bids me write for her a sonnet. 

The unwonted task I must of course essay, 

Her lightest wishes always I obey, 
(Although I'd rather buy her Easter bonnet). 
So here's the first quatrain, pray do not con it, 

I hope to write the rest, with some delay. 

Unto the goal this rhyme is just half way, 
As for the second quatrain I have done it. 
Into the ink once more I dip my quill. 

And down the home stretch now I hope to fleet, 
Pegasus ambling almost at his will, 

And though with Petrarch I might not compete, 
The next line will my dreaded task fulfill. 

For, here's my sonnet, fourteen lines complete. 



fThis sonnet is, in the original, a very graceful bit of persiflage. 
Its author has been requested by a senorita to ivrite a sonnet for 
her. It is something he has seldom or never done, but he ivill try it. 
Then he finds that he has already written the first quatrain. He 
goes on telling of his progress and what he is about to do, and begins 
to hope that the task will prove easier than he had feared. He 
continues in the same way, until he finds that he has written four- 
teen lines and the sonnet is completed before he realized that he had 
made more than a beginning. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 141 

Elizabeth Howard Hyde 

Mrs. Hyde was born in Le Mars, Iowa, where her parents and 
older sisters joined a colony of Southern neighbors to "pioneer.' 
Her mother was as helpless as the average Southern girl, used to 
colored servants, but she readily adjusted herself to the primitive 
life, though with many a longing for the old home in Maryland. 
As a child, Mrs. Hyde was always a dreamer, for to her the real 
things — droughts and grasshoppers — were not very attractive. She 
came to California as a small child, and this dreamland of fruit 
and flowers fully satisfied her longing for beauty. Studied at the 
Los Angeles Normal School, and taught in Colton and Riverside. 
After marriage she did society editor's work on Redondo, Riverside 
and other papers. Has written for the Los Angeles Times and 
Examiner and a number of magazines. In 1914 she began to write 
verse and has found pleasure in it ever since. Is a member of 
Writers' Club of San Diego ; Poetry Society of America ; the Drama 
League; and the San Diego Art Guild. 

LARK-ELLEN'S VOICE 

(To Ellen Beach Yaw) 
It is the skylark's wild, glad song, 
So high above earth's droning throng! 
No, 'tis the purling of lost brooks, 
That seek to rest in shadowy nooks. 
Or winds that moan through leafless trees; 
It is the flower-perfumed breeze ; 
The lone night-bird's call to his mate ; 
'Tis love's rebuke to cruel hate. 
A violin's weird, minor strain. 
And then — a lost soul's cry of pain ! 
A mother's crooning lullaby, 
And now a tear — a laugh — a sigh — 
A call to Live, to Love, — Rejoice! 
It is our own "Lark-Ellen's" Voice! 

THE UNWELCOME DOVE OF PEACE 

I saw a dove wing through the air. 
It, weary, fluttered here and there ! 
It seemed bewildered, in its flight — 
Nor seemed to know just where to Hght ! 
No dove-cot near ; of food no trace ; 
No welcome found ; no resting place, — 
And it wearily fluttered — out of sight! 



142 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

A message winged through the air! 
It flitted here; it fluttered there. 
Through the bewildered world, it flew, 
To war-mad nations, near, it drew, — 
No welcome heard ; no resting place. 
Strange, in a world advanced in Grace ! 
And it drearily fluttered on and on. 
How long will bereft children moan ? 
Man ne'er to woman can atone. 
Long years, all lives must feel the blight. 
The far-flamed Viper doth ignite 
The greed, the passions, lust for blood, 
Swirling earth's peoples, in hate's flood. 
Each prays to win ! They but blaspheme ! 
God hath not ears where curses teem. 
God only knows Truth, Peace, all Good, 
For God is Love ; true Brotherhood ! 
God doth not change. This war shall cease ! 
All earth must seek this Dove of Peace. 

HOMELESS JIMMIE 

Yes, I'm nine, the w^orst age, they say, 
When it comes to givin' a boy away; 
Lots of folks ruther have girls. 
Or a teeny baby, with yeller curls. 
That they want 'em, I don't see why. 
They can't do nothin' but laugh or cry! 
I can work an' whittle, you bet your life ! 
If you show me the job an' lend me a knife. 
You think a city chap won't know how 
To do any chores, nor milk, nor plow, 
But I'm sure willin' any work to do, 
And how I'm learnin' is up to you. 
A feller who once lived on our street 
Said country folks had plenty to eat! 
Swore he ate an orange off'n a tree — 
Say, do you s'pose he was guyin' me? 
In the city they always come in a box ; 
Had 'em when a kid, in my Xmas socks. 
Patsy was out on a farm for a week, 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 143 

Of "pasture" and "dairy" I heard him speak, 
Of "milkin" an' "churnin" an' 'pon my word 
He rode a horse to drive up the herd ! 
That would be great; — But what gets me 
Is eatin' fruit from a blamed old tree. 

He said, every day they had milk and bread ; 
Mother gave us that, but now she is dead ! 
Miss her? Well, let's not talk about that, 
(With fast batting eyes to keep the tears back). 
"Let you love me?" Yes, but don't make a row, 
A feller can't stand fussin', nohow. 

Oh, I s'pose I will bother you some — 

Some things I do awfully bum ! 

Oh, y-e-s, of course, sure I'll go to school ; 

Can't hurt a feller much to talk by rule, 

Tho' I'd ruther plow an' plant the crop 

A.n' peas an' beans an' pertaters drop. 

Pat said he gathered eggs from a nest, 

Of all the eats he liked 'em best ! 

But I'd ruther save them for baby chicks 

An' little turkeys an' ducks, that picks 

At seeds, an' drinks, then rustles some more — 

Saw 'em in a window, down in a store. 

He said he ate grapes right oH the vine! 

Maybe, but them ain't the city kin'. 

Say, have you got a watermelon patch ? 

I never did have enough at a batch. 

I'll have to wait for them to get ripe? 

Can eat all I want, and not have to swipe! 

Don't s'pose I could have a dog all my own? 

(With timid glance, and low wistful tone) ; 

I can! An' a cat, a calf an' a pig! 

Gee, mister, but I'll get in an' dig! 

Mother will know it, an' won't she bless you! 

She can see down where the stars shine through. 

Why, I'll work an' whistle all day long; 

Go to school, learn a lot, grow big an' strong. 

Sure I ain't dreamin'? It can't be true! 

When can we start ? When can I go home with you ? 



144 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Stiles Johnson 

Stiles Johnson is a youth of sixteen, who has literary tastes, and, 
in spite of the fact that he was compelled to leave High School after 
the completion of the first half of his freshman year, is endeavoring 
to satisfy them. There is no need for him to be disheartened. 
Many a man has risen to heights of intellectual power whose early 
life seemed full of hardship. 

A LAMENT 

Somewhere I know there's a dull grey sky, 

That threatens a flurry of snow, 
And a cold sharp w^ind that rushes by, 

Setting bright cheeks aglow. 

Somewhere I know there are ice-fringed brooks 

With frosted leaves by their sides. 
Somewhere I know there's a bird that looks 

Back, as he southward glides. 

Somewhere I know someone's sharpening a skate, 

Someone repairing a sleigh. 
Waiting impatiently for that near date 

When they'll go skating away. 

From all their laughter and mirth I'm debarred. 

From all their pleasure and fun. 
For winter to me means but happiness marred, 

I live in the land of the sun. 

I live where the flowers bloom all the year round. 
And so tiresome they soon get to be. 

That I long for an autumn to dash them aground 
And take all the leaves from a tree. 

There's a tropical w^ind from the desert today. 

In the heat it's refreshing to know. 
That somewhere today in a land far away. 

There may come the first flurry of snow. 




JOHN VANCE CHENEY 





i 


HI '-'^* '^H 




SAN DIEGO WRITERS 145 

Orlando W, Kinne 

O. W. Kinne was born in Camden, New York, in 1839. On the 
death of his parents, in his early childhood, he was adopted by his 
uncle, Amos, and brought up on a farm. In 1861 he enlisted and 
served two years in the Civil War. In 1863 married and entered 
the lumber and mill business. In 1883 moved to Topeka, Kansas, 
remaining there until 1889, when another move was made to 
Denver, Colorado. Came to San Diego in 1911. For the past forty 
years he has written much. The following introductory comment 
is from "On the Margin," in the San Diego Union. 



OF THE MAKING OF SONNETS THERE IS NO SIGN OF 

AN END. — By ''Yorick" 

An elderly gentleman walked into my presence the 
other day and informed me quite as a matter of fact 
that he was a writer of sonnets — that he had written 
scores, perhaps hundreds of sonnets, and that he 
would like to have my opinion on a few that he had 
brought with him. 

Naturally, the announcement in this manner of 
speaking took my breath away. A sonnet, as every- 
body knows, is the essence of brief poetic expression. 
It is not as easy of conception or execution as a 
limerick or an Imagist madrigal. The poet who 
writes even a passable third-rate sonnet must be a 
skilled mechanician of verse in the first place, as a 
cameo cutter must be a mechanician of art — not a 
mere artisan whose graving tools are fit only for 
the sculpturing of tombstones. And when this gen- 
tle visitant told me that sonnets were his favorite 
metier I was doubtfully interested and curious withal. 

I asked to see his wares, and this is what he gave 
me — the title was "A Laurel Leaf" : 



146 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Memorial of the fast receding years — 

Of hallowed days, of moments intertwined 
About the silent windows of the mind ; 

Reminder of the joyful time that nears, 

When Autumn flourishes her gleaming shears, 
Moved by an impulse that is undefined, 
And cuts wherever her fingers are inclined, — 

A dream, almost forgotten, reappears. 

A smiling valley and a purling brook ; 

A pathway leading through a shady dell ; 
A maiden with a soul-bewitching look ; 

A purple leaflet quivering as it fell ; 
A dimpled hand that laid it in this book ; 

A brief adieu — that proved a last farewell. 

KNOCKING OPPORTUNITY 

"This Is a sonnet," said I to myself; "a genuine 
spark from the fire divine — and, mayhap, a true 
reminiscence out of fond recollection of a lover's 
soul." "What is your name. Sir Poet?" I asked; and 
he told me that it was O. W. Klnne and that he had 
lived a long time In San Diego. So I asked him for 
another of the same quality and he gave me this one, 
a pessimistic, fatalistic bit of verse called "Oppor- 
tunity" : 

Thou art unstable — fleeting as a thought — 

As fickle as the winds that fly by night ; 

Uncertain are thy steps, unsafe thy flight; 
And all thy pathways are with danger fraught. 
He who, perchance, in thy embrace is caught, 

And supplements his manhood with thy might. 

Is soon defrauded of his specious right — 
His aspirations turned to less than nought. 
Master of nothing. Cease thy vacant boast. 

Mayhap thou callest once, more likely thrice, 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 147 

But destiny is wrought for high and low, 
And none escapes the goal. Thou dost not know 
The value of a soul, nor hast the price 
Of human happiness — thou art a ghost ! 

PICTURING A SONNETEER 

These are, in my opinion, very good sonnets, their 
chief merit being their simplicity of utterance and 
the sanity of their figures and similes. This is high 
praise in judgment on the modern sonnet, most of 
the artificers of which seem to think that because the 
mechanical form of the fourteener is so condensed, 
they must compress their thought into a sort of steno- 
graphic habit, cryptic in its obscurity, allusive and 
altogether uncomeatible — like an intricate Chinese 
puzzle or the symbolism of the Egyptian glyptic 
writings before the Rosetta key was applied. 

I picture these sonneteers with tongues a-cheek 
and legs a-twist screwing the lid of a pint jar of son- 
net to hold a quart of sonnet stuff. I am glad that 
Poet Kinne doesn't use a thought compressor when 
he preserves the fruit of his meditation in a sonnet. 

IN MEMORY OF MYRON REED 

The people listened with enraptured ears 

To clear-cut words, more valuable than gold ; 

To sentences that will survive the years, 
Outlive the centuries and ne'er grow old ; 

To truths more choice than Oriental pearls — 

Their value recognized among the worlds. 

No death can silence his prophetic voice ; 

No dissolution dim the scenes portrayed ; 
The views presented, that we might rejoice, 

Face things eternal and not be afraid. 
No grave can hide the beauty of his mind. 
Nor cover up the prospect he outlined. 



148 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

He lives today — immortalized on earth — 
Incarnate in the ebb and flow of life; 

Pulsating with a newer, broader birth — 
A stalwart leader in the fields of strife. 

His memory moves to greater, grander deeds. 

To higher privileges and worthier meeds. 

He speaks as fluently as in the past ; 

As forcibly he points us to the chart 
Of human Hope. His lessons will outlast 

The senseless, soulless predicates of art. 
His wisdom is as deep and forceful now 

As when the flush of youth lit up his brow. 

The poor man's counsellor; the widow's friend; 

The mourner's helper in the hour of death ; 
The burden bearer, and the one to lend 

Substantial comfort with his latest breath. 
Each moment of his life he found reward 
In turning bitterness to sweet accord. 

Progression found in him an advocate 
Worthy of adding prestige to her steel. 

Truth vanquished superstition ; rose in state. 
Confirmed her case and granted no appeal. 

He gave to character a higher place. 

And guaranteed Misfortune no disgrace. 

All men were brothers ; and he recognized 
A kindred sentiment in every heart. 

He loved Humanity ; and compromised 
No man's prerogative, in whole or part. 

His criticisms were profoundly just. 

Piercing deception 'neath the social crust. 

He had compassion for the child of sin ; 

In barren places scattered goodly seed. 
He took the wretch for what he might have been. 

And proved a Good Samaritan indeed. 
The summons came — he parted with his sheep — 
Laid down the shepherd's crook and fell asleep ! 

Denver, Colorado, February 10, 1900. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 149 



W. Buell Knapp 



W. Buell Knapp was born in Virginia City, Nevada, February 
7, 1862. Leaving school in his early years, he identified himself 
with minstrelsy and farce comedy, when he was constantly writing 
limericks, and the like; but not until he came to San Diego in 1915, 
and was inspired by the beauties of the Exposition, did he write 



verse. 



MY IDEAL 

O, this beautiful land of sunshine, 

Delightful haven of rest ! 
With devotion I worship your shrine ; 

San Diego, I love you the best ! 

Your wealth of sweet-scented flowers, 

Where infinite beauty abides, 
What a glorious privilege is ours. 

Enjoying what Nature provides! 

I've seen the quaint idols of China, 

And also the wonders abroad ; 
Your offerings are truly diviner ; 

They lead one nearer to God. 

With your Fair I'm surely delighted, 
Its charms are full of real worth ; 

I'm so glad that all are invited 
To visit this Heaven on Earth ! 

I worship you like a fond lover. 
My devotion I fain would reveal ; 

In the quest I failed to discover 
Another like you, My Ideal ! 

TAKE THE BITTER WITH THE SWEET 

Does your life seem sad and bitter? 

Are your pathways dark and drear? 
Have surroundings lost their glitter? 

Does the world no longer cheer ? 
Would you wish the prospect brighter, 

Where the lights and shadows meet ? 
You can make your burdens lighter — 

Take the bitter with the sweet. 



150 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Is your heart suppress'd by sorrow? 

Do you sometimes shrink with fear? 
Brighter daj^s may come tomorrow, 

Making life worth living here. 
Tho' the darkest hour seems longest, 

We should dream of no defeat — 
But thro' pain become the strongest; 

Take the bitter with the sweet. 

We shall find, in all life's troubles, 

That they seldom come to stay : 
They will disappear like bubbles — 

Fade from view and pass away. 
When the soul is filled with sadness, 

Patience will her rounds repeat. 
Changing all our woe to gladness — 

Take the bitter with the sweet. 

Madge Leopold 

Madge Leopold was born and brought up in a New York city 
flat. When she first came West she would walk on the hills with 
her arms stretched out to take in the vastness of it all — space seemed 
so wonderful to her. Has lived in Denver and San Diego for the 
past twelve years. Is the wife of a mechanic and the mother of 
two children, and is now taking the two years' course of study at 
the State Normal School. 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

PRAYER ACROSTIC 

Just at the close of the "Garden" Fair; 
Observe we the last call to honor our bards. 
Awake in each heart, Lord, the fervent prayer; 
Quicken us to see beauty in flower that nods, — 
Universe glorious with gifts of the Gods ! 
Instead of our grovellings, worry and fret. 
Natural living, clear thinking, contentment beget. 

More blame be to us in this Land of the Sun, 
Invited to feast as our poets have done, 
Lifted up by the ozone and cheered by the glow, 
Leave we nothing to others, as they did, ere we go? 
Enlarge our capacities to see, know and feel ; 
Rouse music w^ithin us, as fruits of their zeal. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 151 

Pearl La Force Mayer 

Mrs. Pearl La Force Mayer is a member of the San Diego 
Woman's Press Club and of the San Diego Poetry Society. 

SONG OF THE DESERT 

Oh, I sing the song of the desert plain, 

Where the winds of God blow there wild and free! 
Where the sweep of things is divinely great, 

Oh, that is the place for the heart of me! 

Out there is the land of majestic space! 

Out there is the land where the sand-whirls rise 
In the flowing columns of sunlit grace, 

And there stretch the plains and there reach the skies! 

On that swinging plain, oh, the sun is king. 
And his reigning light, it is fierce and bold. 

Oh, the day, new born, it is cradled pink, 
And it dies at last in a bed of gold ! 

In the swing of its noble lines is rest. 

And I love it as sailors love the sea ! 
In the song of its silence, peace there is, 

And it gives content to the heart of me ! 

Oh, I sing the song of the desert plain, 

Where the winds of God blow there wild and free! 
Where the sweep of things is divinely great, 

With potential touch of eternity ! 



A MAN AND THE DESERT 

At morn — its wind swept spaces wide and bare. 

And exaltation in my soul ! 

My horse and I race out to meet the coming dawn. 

I'm glad God made us so that we could feel! 

For desert dawn's a moving pean that 

Is sung with colors and with winds — 

The pulsing morn exults with joy and praise! 



152 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

At noon — it's brazen, flaming, blinding heat 

And misery sears my veins ! 

My horse and I sink down 

Beneath the sagging tent 

And long for deep dark shade and mossy dell. 

For desert noon's a flaming beauty most 

Intensified and wanton cruel. 

And any one who goes her way — knows hell ! 

At night — it's charm, and thought, and mystery, 

And heart gates swing out wide ! 

The stars are living things 

That call to us across 

Its purple peace, and wake out sweet desires 

And all our fond intensest dreams — 

For, ah, the desert does no thing by halves ; 

The magic of its night has charmed my soul ! 



Ellen Morrill Mills 

Ellen Morrill Mills is a transplanted native of Maine, of old 
colonial stock, who has been so long in California, and beautiful 
La Jolla, that she regards herself as a Californian. She is a busy 
business woman, engaged in real estate, but with a fondness for 
scribbling verses and other things when she can find time. 

THE BALLAD OF THE OREGON 

Some praised the days of sailing ships, of white wings, fair 
and free, 

And "hearts of oak," that nobly dared the dangers of the sea. 

They mourned degenerate seamanship, viewed modern craft 
with scorn. 

But their scoffing; changed to a pean of praise for the match- 
less "Oregon !" 

She lay in the harbor, inert and grim. 

And the ripples of the tide 
Licked, with a thousand glistening tongues, 

Her massive iron side. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 153 

A sea gull drifted overhead, 

And its timid shadow lay 
A moment on the great, grim guns, 

That could keep a fleet at bay. 

A vision of might in calm repose 

Was the monster resting there, 
But a message sped from the north, to rouse 

The lion from its lair. 

Over the vi^ires, from the Nation's chief, 

Flashed news of a foreign foe. 
"Cuba! The Maine!" Weird voices sang, 

And the "Oregon" must go ! 

The "Oregon" has waked to life ; 

Her giant pulses beat 
In time and tune to clash and clang 

And the hurried tread of feet. 

Out of the harbor mouth at last 

And off on her long, wild race ! 
Nor wind and wave the only foes 

For the "Oregon" to face ! 

The might of the subtle, treacherous one, 

Her tubes full charged with doom ; 
Let the searchlight eye of the speeding ship 

Guard well, in hours of gloom! 

The dread of the fabled, hostile fleet. 

Somewhere on the ocean plain ; 
It may be the might of the "Oregon" 

Against the ships of Spain ! 

League after league flashed past in foam. 

Coast after coast went by ; 
Cape Horn, the king of storms, is past ; 

Full in her path may lie 



154 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

The fleet that numbers five to one, 

Perhaps now rushing on 
To match its hate and its old world might 

With the power of the "Oregon." 

A smoke cloud on the horizon clear — 

And is it friend or foe? 
A fight to face, or the armored strength 

Of Sampson ? An hour will show ! 

The hour is past. In the waiting fleet, 
The news goes round with a cheer 

That tells the skies of the tale : "Hurrah ! 
The 'Oregon' is here!" 

Hurrah for the cruiser-battleship ! Wherever she may be, 
May she still defy, as on the voyage, the dangers of the sea! 
De some still scof^ at modern craft? Then leave them in 

their scorn. 
Complaint shall die as we raise a cheer for our matchless 

"Oregon!" 

THE PLAINT OF THE SHIPS* 
They say the day will come when man shall hold 

His hard won empire of imperial air. 
When, soaring, he will cast upon the winds 

The toys wherewith his careless youth was blest. 
Then will he scorn, will he, too, soon forget 

Ocean, his dear, rough nurse of boyhood years, 
And the white ships, his sisters, aye, his mates 

In many a venture fraught with glowing chance ? 

Cradled long years in living oak and ash 

Our substance rested, till he called it forth ; 

Fashioned at length to flitting shapes that knew 
The cold north spray, the languid, scented gulf. 

Who taught this boy-god, Man, to hold true course, 
Though thousand storms disputed every league ? 



* This ijoas ivritten for the dedication of the Wednesday Club- 
house in San Diego, the conventionalized ship or galleon being the 
symbol of that organization. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 155 

Who held him safe, or cradled him at last 

In cool, sea-f ronded peace ? We, we the ships ! 

Shall new things break the sea charm, dim the spell 
Of cool horizons, far beneath the stars? 

We cannot soar ; lie fettered in the grasp 

Of God's eternal mystery, the Sea. 
As shift the changing mists across its face, 

We fear to pass in power, know reproach, 
Forlorn in some shrunk marsh, with shredded sail. 

Shall not our soul, tuned to the endless tides, 
Live in some sign, some symbol of the Ships? 

May we not hope that kind remembrance dwells 
Still in the hearts that, youthful, held us dear? 

Then, so we die not, so, in soul, we live, 

Place us as symbols, ever in your gaze. 
Let us be still your freighted argosies, 

Bearing bright bales of hopes and thoughts and dreams. 
We shall not mind those far, new glittering birds. 

Bearing to-morrow's sunrise on their wings, 
If man shall say, ''This did I see and know ; 

Thus did I think and dream when once I sailed 
(Ages ago!) out there beneath the stars." 

THE PASSPORT 

What wert thou, then ? Teller of tales was I. 
My tales were told, and it grew cold on earth. 
So I came here, to the gate ; wilt let me in ? 

Thy tales — what of them? Had they wings to lift 

Some tired soul above the ruck of life ? 

Did they hold cheer, that warms like a hearthfire? 

I cannot tell thee ; but this hope I hold : 

That some saw gardens where the deserts spread, 

And some the glint of white wings in the blue — 

Teller of Tales, if this be even so, 

Enter, the gate of Heaven stands wide to thee. 



156 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

THE GYPSY HEART 

The g}^psy road is sweet with fern, 

All spicy-green in fragrant nooks. 
And, deep within, I catch with joy 

The murmuring of happy brooks. 
Back to the town I needs must go. 

Vigil to keep, and bread to earn; 
Yet grant me first to see, dear Lord, 

What lieth just beyond the turn. 

A league beyond my work-day bound, 

The pageants of the seasons pass — 
And who so blind as I, so far 

From cheering winds and waving grass ? 
For Freedom's gay good fellowship, 

For Love's immortal face I yearn. 
These, with all else that's fair, perchance, 

Await me, just beyond the turn. 

If "dust to dust" at last be said. 

Ere half my wistful dreams are born, 

This much grant Thou : my dust would lie 
(Waft there by vagrant winds, at dawn) 

In ruts that line the good brown road. 

'Twould rise, like incense from its urn. 

Freed by the heels of happy chance, 
In sunshine, just be3-ond the turn. 

Irving E. Outcalt 

Irving E. Outcalt, now a professor in the State Normal School, 
at San Diego, had the privilege of being born a farmer's son. This 
vfas March 16, 1870, in Illinois. He attended country school, until 
at seventeen years of age he entered Illinois University. Four years 
later he came to California and lived on his father's ranch at 
Miramar. The years 1896-8 were spent at Stanford University, 
where he received his A.B. and A.M. Since 1898 has taught in High 
Schools and the State Normal (spending 1911 in Europe), and it 
was at this latter that his "Admetus," a drama in four acts, was 
written and presented. The quality of the drama can be grasped 
only partially from the three brief quotations given. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 157 

O, THE DAY IS A LOOM 

O, the Day is a loom where the God doth weave, 

A wondrous loom is the Day ! 
And the gleaming web is the life we leave, 

It gleams with our work and play. 
The flash of the shuttle, the quick return — 

Doth the weaver smile as he sees ? 
We may love and hold, we may love and mourn, 

But what doth the weaver please? 

O, the Day is a harp to the God's swift hand, 

A wondrous harp is the Day ! 
Its tones are the noises of sea and land. 

And strange is the harper's lay. 
From the God's swift hand fly the sweet wild chords — 

From the God's swift hand they fly ! 
O, the music we love, but we know not the words 

That he sings as he passes by ! 

THE DAY IS COMING 

Fhe Day is coming! Phoebus, lord, hath spoken! 

The huntress' bow is slack, her arrows fail. 
The Day is come! Dawn's sweet dream is broken. 

And rosy fingers glimmer thro' the veil. 
The Day is coming! O'er the gray Aegean 

The petals kindle in the orient rose ; 
And now the flame hath touched the hills Euboean, 

And thro' the Muses' haunts the glory grows ! 

The Day is coming ! O'er the western ocean 

The mists are flying — chastened is the air. 
The forest gloom is stirred with strange emotion, 

And one by one lays all its secrets bare. 
The Day is coming ! Behold the blazing portal ! 

O man, stand up ! To thee 'tis given for aye 
To look with eyes that die on light immortal — 

Behold the chariot-throne! The God! The Day! 



158 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

THE VISION OF HERACLES 

That tomb, 
It seemed, was but a gateway, now flung wide, 
And I was gazing thro', into a world 
Miraculous as that which good Palaemon 
Sees thro' his blindness. Yet 'twas but this world ; 
For some strange sense was suddenly unsealed 
Within me, and my spirit leapt to meet 
The miracles that live within this earth ! 
I heard a bird's song; and within — beyond, 
Were all the songs that birds have ever sung. 
I heard a child's laugh — just a happy rill. 
That told me how a wondrous stream of joy 
Comes rippling down the human centuries. 
I pluckt a flower, and in its silken folds 
The marvel of its beauty lay revealed. 
A million cups, like this, had filled themselves 
With sunlight to the brim ; and ever>^ one 
Had claspt its treasure unto life and death. 
To make this beauty — dying in my hand. 
The fragrance drew my spirit back thro' fields 
And garden-plots uncounted, where the winds 
Of long-dead summers played, and elements 
Climbed grosssly from the soil, to lose themselves 
In the soft distillation that would mix 
Their souls with beauty — for a summer's morn. — 

But I must not too long withhold thy joy: 
I may not tell thee all that I perceived 
Thro' that new sense that laid the husk aside. 
All was of wondrous import, for I saw 
That earth would not be earth, if Death were not; 
That man would not be man, if Death were not; 
That life would not be life, if Death were not ; 
That all the beauty and the melody 
Are molded and attuned in every way 
By those two friends — co-workers — Life and Death! 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 159 

Mahdah Payson 

Of her literary work Mrs. Payson thus speaks : 

I cannot remember the time that ideas, both literary and musical, 
were not forming in my brain and clamoring for expression, but 
whether these ideas were nipped in the bud by the chilling air of 
Illinois, where I lived during my early married life, they did not 
come to maturity until I found myself among the congenial sur- 
roundings of California. 

THE SKINNER TO HIS MULES 

Wake up, my mules, and stand from your beds, 

And into your food dig your muzzles, 

When your stomachs are full, go, strike the trail — 

The dynamite calls that there's work to do, 

His falling rock makes the earth shudder. 

Quiet there, mules, now all for the pull. 

Pull, pull the rock sleds to the crushers. 

You've blinked through the hour of pausing noon 
And Time will not balk when the sleepy sun 
Shadows cactus, mesquite and yucca. 
Point your snouts and inquisitive eyes 
To the camp and your mess of alfalfa. 

No motoring man can build his roads 

As you, oh you wonder-wise mules. 

Does he thank you? Not he. 

He's a vanishing speck. 

Close your eyes to his world. 

Close your ears to his honk 

And sleep. You gods of my trust. 



160 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

THE HOMESTEADER 

Come, girl of mine, over the desert — 
Dig your spurs in your cayuse's flanks — 
The mouth of the earth is open. 
Are you faint in its foggy breath ? 

My cabin waits In the desert 
The wife and the mother in You — 
Alone in the vastness with gaunt God — 
Come, we wait death — for You. 

MY SINGING GARDEN 

In a sunny garden 

Lavender gold and pink — 

I shared my secret 

With gallardias thrilllngly gay. 

They flaunted the melting message 

Down the grassy paths 

Over the beds of dahlias, 

Blue larkspur and purple phlox, 

Of canary-colored cannas, 

And lush-green mignonette. 

Roses and copper-brown roses 

Nodded the news with the wind, 

And the cheeks of virgin camellias 

Blushed to their gallant leaves. 

Oh ! the lavender gold and pink garden 

Singing the song of my secret, 

In a world of symphonies. 

Mrs. Satella Jaques Penman 

Mrs. Satella Jaques Penman's letters of travel for twenty-five 
years in many foreign countries and throughout the United States 
vpere solicited for publication, as were also her lectures while in the 
Iowa lecture field twelve years. For three years she edited a col- 
umn in a newspaper. Magazines have paid for her verse, which has 
been mostly for children. 




3 ^ 




SAN DIEGO WRITERS 161 

THE STORM KING 

Pouf ! Heat of the Desert you're rising yet higher! 
Ha ! Blast of the Glaciers, fall fiercely upon it ! 
Now Friction ! go gather the steam of the sweating, 
The conflict will gender where strike they each other. 
And roll it in fleeces against the blue heaven, 
To blacken while sinking for action ! 

Blow Tempest, ye bugler! My chariot's behind you 
All billowy white, and abreast of the forces; 
With foamy white horses and wheels of a cyclone ! 
Swift rolling, as lead we the battle front lower, 
For felling the timber and swirling the dust up, 
While blowing our trumpet for conquest. 

Ho! Prince of the Iceland! Jack Frost, hurry hither! 
Make bullets of water to hail devastation! 
Aim straighter, ye Lightnings! Sah ! dazzle the vision ! 
Boom louder, ye Thunders ! So ! shaking the heavens 
To loos'ning the torrents with booming of cannon, 
And the ball-lightning shells' explosion ! 

Ha! grain and the flowers and apple trees kneeling! 
The beasts loudly bellow and wild birds are calling. 
Mothers call shrilly to terror-eyed children 
Who see chimneys throwing bricks into the windows! 
Wild shrieks the wind bugler, while telephone wires 
Ice fingers are thrumming, weird tones to our drumming, 
As over tin roofing we gallop ! 

A 'Teace be Still" falls now, upon the wild tumult, 
Dispersing its forces. The South Wind is wiping 
All tears from the willows. The sun smiles a gladness. 
Through radiant raindrops, which sing a peace promise, 
From bars of the rainbow, while falling tink tonkle, 
In baptismal basins o'erflowing. 



162 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Carroll De Wilton Scott 

Carroll De Wilton Scott was born in Stevenville, Texas, Decem- 
ber 2, 1878. At the age of four his parents moved to San Diego 
County, where they lived on a ranch until the son was twelve years 
old, and where, in one of the country schools, he received his early 
education. He entered the public schools of San Diego, and gradu- 
ated from the High School in 1898 ; then entered Stanford Uni- 
versity, taking a law course, from which he was graduated in 1902. 
Being more interested in writing than in law, he never practiced 
his profession. His love for nature early manifested itself. After 
leaving college he went to Nevada for one year, where he did 
much writing along descriptive lines. In 1904 he taught history in 
a private military school in San Mateo. In 1906 he travelled over 
Southern California with a burro, studying birds and plants, and in 
1908 took up intensive farming at Pacific Beach. In September, 
1910, he married Miss Edith Mills, and remained on the farm until 
1914. A daughter was born, April 12, 1912, and a son, December 
1916. Upon a return to San Diego in 1914, he studied bees, and 
began writing in earnest. He was made teacher of science in the 
Francis Parker School in 1914, where he taught for one month, and 
then entered the City Public Schools, introducing nature study and 
agriculture; and then returned to the Francis Parker School, where 
he is now teaching. He has written two volumes of two hundred 
and fifty lyrics, one for Little Children, and one for Larger Child- 
ren; and one volume of Pageant Plays. 

THE BUTTERFLY 

Whither going butterfly? 
Fairy from the summer sky 
Dancing down the pleasant breeze 
Hither, yon and as you please. 
Tell me ere you disappear 
Are the fields of freedom near? 

Whither going, butterfly? 
Restless, but with ne'er a sigh ; 
Gay one, can you tell me where 
You have slipped away from care ? 
Was it in the meadow grass 
Where the breezy ripples pass? 

Whither going, butterfly ? 
Brighter blossoms do you spy? 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 163 

Loiter here by me and sup 
Sweets from Mariposa's cup 
Painted like thy dusty wings, 
Golden, stained with purple rings. 

Not a moment can you wait? 
Well, I would not make you late. 
Blooms are rife in plain and dell, 
Goldenrod or lily-bell ; 
Thither hasten, butterfly, 
Spirit of the summer sky. 

THE GREEN FAIRY 

(The Black-chinned Hummingbird, who builds her nest of the down 
of the sycamore tree) 

Was it a green fairy 
Whose wings the leaf stirred, 
Dainty and airy. 
Or just a wee bird? 

There she hums to her nest 
The size of a poppy cup, 
Moulding it with her breast, 
Binding the edges up. 

Woven of golden stuff 
From the sycamore. 
Feathered with willow fluff. 
Fastened with gossamer. 

Where is the fairy prince 
Decked out in rainbow sheen 
Whose flash makes you wince? 
Oh, he is seldom seen. 

Like a cavalier gay, 
A friend of the flowers. 
He is ever at play 
In sunny hours. 



164 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Soon two treasures white 
In the nest will lie, 
Surely a pretty sight 
For the mother's eye. 

When a twig is a home 
(That a breath carries) 
With a leaf for a dome — 
Who says there're no fairies? 

MEADOWLARK, MEADOWLARK! 

Meadowlark, meadowlark, flute me a measure 
Brimful of April, o'erflowing with pleasure; 
Over the mesas on tremulous wing. 
Linking with music one knoll to another, 
Where the wild oats the tidy-tips smother — 
You, the glad minstrel of happy-heart Spring. 

Meadowlark, show me your nest in the grasses. 
Where the red butterfly dips as he passes. 
Little I wonder your nestlings are gay. 
Snug in a hoof-print, deeply arched over 
With long grasses hidden by lupines and clover, 
Lulled by the west-winds the live-long day. 

Meadowlark, meadowlark, stranger to sadness 
Come I today to partake of your gladness ; 
Hear your rich carolings near and afar ; 
Wade in blue lakelets of dainty lobelias, 
Breathe the aroma of white-starred muillias — 
Beauty and sweetness no humans will mar. 

Amy Sebree-Smith 

Amy Sebree-Smith was born in Arizona. A few months later 
her father, then a Lieutenant in the U. S. Cavalry, was transferred 
to the Artillery, and went to Washington, D. C. From then until 
the death of her father, over twelve years ago, she lived north, 
south, east and west, as is the way in the army. She studied under 
teachers at home, later went to High School in Newport, Rhode 
Island, and then attended the Boston University. Lived two years 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 165 

at Yellowstone Park, and later at Fort Apache, Arizona. While at 
these western points she spent her time mostly in the open, riding 
horseback, camping, and exploring the mountains and plains. From 
this fact largely comes what knowledge she has of western and 
desert life and character. She has written in secret since she was 
four years old, when she composed her first verse, entitled "Violets." 
(It was free verse.) But not until she came to San Diego some nine 
years ago did she seem to have the time and opportunity to pursue 
the vocation of writing in a more systematic fashion. She con- 
siders California an ideal place in which to work, and has received 
great help from the fact of being a member of the San Diego 
Woman's Press Club. 

Miss Sebree-Smith has published verse in different magazines. 
Poetry, New York Times, Field and Stream, etc. Has also done 
various kinds of newspaper writing, from running a weekly paper 
to special article work for New York papers. 

THE ARMY-FLIER 

I come, I go, in a throbbing breath ; 

My engine hums like a giant bee ; 

And while my wings whirr merrily 
I play with a waiting Death. 

O, the ways of earth my father trod ; 

His task on secret feet to go, 

To hunt the trail of the hidden foe — 
But I am winged, like a god. 

I come, a speck in the lanes of air ; 

A moving dot of winged steel; 

And far below the foemen feel 
A tremor to see me there. 

For they know I spy their secret things ; 

Each trench I sight, each point I mark. 

Then, "Crack, crack, crack!" their air-guns bark, 
To crumple my whirring wings. 

I go — Ah ! swifter than death I fly ; 

I smile their futile hate to see ; 

I bear their secrets back with me, 
As I wing the lanes of sky. 



166 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

At last will come a time, I know, 

When swiftly though I wheel in flight, 

Yet swifter will their vengeance smite. 
Then, falling to Death — I go ! 

TRAILED 

(Written during a dust storm, and founded on a story told by an 
old prospector) 

He was a meaner cuss than me, a meaner cuss, by far — 
We both hailed from the muck of dust they called the 

"Double-Bar." 
I ain't no saint; I've killed my men, but all in open fight — 
And yet Bill never saw the two that trailed us day and night. 

He was my pal for some ten years, and so I played him 

straight. 
Although the thing he did that night most turned my love 

to hate. 
I killed my men in open fight, the sheriff and his pack, 
But Bill sneaked on a cow-puncher and shot him in the back! 

And so it was we jumped the Bar afore the light of day — 
The boys were comin' after Bill, I heard Gold Bessie say. 
We stole our ponies from the shed and quick the saddles 

cinched. 
Bill's heart is black and no mistake — but I couldn't see him 

lynched. 

At dawn we crossed the desert hills ; the sun shot up the sky. 
The plain below was one hot plain, and — Hell — but we was 

dry! 
At noon we drained our last cool drop and loosed our saddle 

packs. 
'Twas then I looked behind and saw those lean forms in our 

tracks. 

(Two forms they was; lean as starved wolves, and grey as 

camp-fire smoke. 
They walked with us, they ran with us, but never once they 

spoke. ) 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 167 

At last when all the plain was red like it was drippin' blood, 
And the whole sky was covered with an awful crimson flood, 
I stopped and pointed where They come, close after our slow 
feet — 

yes. They still was trailin' us. They never felt the heat. 

1 said to Bill, "I've stood enough ; you speak the truth or die !" 
He looked at my uplifted arm and never blinked an eye. 
"Now, speak the truth," I yelled at him; "now speak the 

truth, you cuss, 
And say you see those two lean forms forever trailin' us." 

Pitying-like he looked at me, then looked Them through and 

through. 
"So help me, God, in all these sands I see no man but 

you" . . . 
(Two forms They was, lean as starved wolves, and grey as 

camp-fire smoke. 
They ran with us. They walked with us, but never once They 

spoke.) 

My arm fell slowly to my side — what more was there to say ? 
So we two men and those two forms kept on till came the day. 
The ponies dropped dead in their tracks, and Bill, he dropped 

at noon. 
His luck held with him to the last, and he died good and 

soon. . . . 

And now it's night and those two forms are trailin' at my 

heel ; 
No living man can tire them and thirst they never feel. 
I ain't no saint ; I've killed my men, but all in open fight. 
And yet Bill never saw the two that trail me day and night. 

(Two forms they are, lean as starved wolves, all ghostlike 

in the gloom. 
They walk with me, They run with me, and trail me to my 

doom.) 



168 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

WHITE MAGIC 

(Panama-California Exposition) 
City of magic, mirrored in a sea 
Of golden airs, what spell of wizardr}- 
Lifted your castled walls and shining towers, 
Called forth your murmuring groves and perfumed bowers? 

It seems incredible that mortal hands 
Upreared this fantasy of fairy lands; 
Fashioned this romance of an olden dream ; 
Rent the earth-veil and showed the inner Gleam. 

Almost I could believe Alladin's spell 
Wove your white walls at peal of midnight bell ; 
That some far dawn saw shining domes arise. 
Enchanted casements open to the skies. . . . 

So musing in the shade of your white walls. 
City of Magic, while the sunlight falls 
On winding w^alks of bloom and murmuring leaves 
I yield me to the spell your beauty weaves. 

Louisa Remondino Stahel 

Louisa Remondino Stahel is a native Californian, born in San 
Diego, and is the daughter of Dr. P. C. Remondino. When under 
ten years of age, with a younger brother and a friend, Carlotta 
Davis, a girl of her own age, who has since become a noted jour- 
nalist writer, they edited and printed, with a little set of rubber 
type and press, a small magazine which the girls illustrated. It 
was a bright story magazine, which many of their elder pioneer 
friends remember with great pleasure. 

Louisa Stahel's first schooling, aside from her home reading and 
studies, was at the old B Street Public School, San Diego. A little 
later she entered the Southwest Institute, and remained for many 
years, until that school closed. Later she entered the Ella Hulse 
Private School and the Mary B. Wallace Academy. 

She was married to Alfred Stahel, Jr., in 1905. She derives 
her talent from both her mother's and father's side, her mother 
belonging to the Devonshire branch of the Earle family, which count 
many illustrious names, both in literature, the established church and 
in medicine; and from her father. Dr. Remondino, she inherits the 
literary talent dating back to the fourteenth century, his family 
having been famous literati. She is a member of the San Diego 
Woman's Press Club, and the Poetry Society of America. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 169 

FANCY'S GARDEN 

Out of my fancy, last night I made a garden ; 

I waked the dark Earth from its trance, 

Till moonbeams smiled on me, lifting and drifting 

Their mystic shadows, from God's words I planted ; 

The wind played softly while I worked ; 

I planted species of words ; 

I made a spring of happiness ; 

I built a temple out of golden smiles ; 

I planted blooming lilies of pure hope ; 

Mingled forget-me-nots, like glances of blue eyes, 

Among the ferns and then, I made sweet laughter 

From the voices of the rippling brooks ; 

I made a sapphire lake, all broidered over with pale water 

flowers ; 
Along its shore the pansies grew, they were my thoughts. 
I planted in the garden's center an aged oak 
With branches spread far out, for hospitality ; 
So did I plant the garden of my fancy with these simple 

words. 
The dove cooed to his mate in the green branches. 
And from the spring a fountain rose — and then, the garden 
Grew into my soul, so I may keep it always for my own. 

WOULD WE WERE BIRDS 

Would we were birds to soar and rise above 

The Earth's great heart that beats and throbs ; 

Birds with tinted wings noiseless as sleeping blossoms. 

CHmbing the hangings of Heaven's blue mystic depths; 

Among the clouds the draperies of the stars. 

The banners of the clouds ravelled by Nature's restless 

fingers — 
The high wild clouds that twist and turn invisible to mortal 

eye. 

Would we were birds with varied plumage — 

The snow white dove reflecting the gray and rose of dawn ; 



170 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Or bird with wide spread wings calling the world to wake 

The grasses and the flowers to sing ; 

Birds gay and wild with gorgeous colored plumes 

As sunset dipping its colors in the sea — 

An Oriole slow drooping in its nest far out of sight. 

Would we were birds whispering in Twilight, time — 

Watched by the stzrT}^ eyes of Night; 

A blue black bird high in the darkened sky. 

Would we were Nightingales singing God's music ; 

In enchanted gardens — singing the rose to sleep. 

Would — most of all — ^we were the larks of morning — 

Calling, calling the little children of the Earth to wake. 

NATIVE BIRD TOWHEE 

Little brown Towhee, with restless heart, 
Roaming the land with the honey bee, 

Building snug nests upon the ground, 
Or in some lowly shrubby tree. 

Si^g your song of our mountains brown, 
Tell of our far hills blue and deep ; 

Sing of our meadows green and gold. 
Where purple shadows fall to sleep. 

Fly o'er our fields of swaying grain, 

Light in the rushes and willow'd bower, 

Sail o'er the brooklets twinkling blue, 
Refreshed by cooled and summer shower. 

Your nest is built of grass and twigs, 
And lined with rootlets soft and strong ; 

Purple fringed flowers wave and smile, 
And listen to your joyous song. 

Little Towhee with patient mate, 

Basking in golden sunbeams rare. 
When your small eggs spring forth into life, 

Mother wings shield them with tender care. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 171 

Ida Ghent Stanford 

Ida Ghent Stanford was born near Greenup, Kentucky. Com- 
pleted her High School studies at sixteen. Obtained a certificate 
and taught three years in her home State. Went west to visit her 
sisters, in Kansas, Colorado and Nebraska. Taught one year at 
White Pine, Colorado, then went to Nebraska. Attended the Fre- 
mont Chautauqua and Teachers' Association, where she met Ira 
Edmund Stanford, a teacher in North Bend, Nebraska. Taught one 
year and was married to Mr. Stanford. Together they went to 
Peru, to the State Normal, for some professional training. After 
finishing she helped her husband in his work, teaching reading and 
elocution at times. Her health gave way in 1898, and in 1901 they 
moved to Phoenix, Arizona. In 1906 they came to San Diego, 
California, Mrs. Stanford's poem, "The House Delightful," appears 
in an earlier part of this volume. 

LINE UPON LINE 

You might crush a nut for its kernel, 

And only the one kernel keep ; 
Or, plant it deep where the rain's low chant 

Shall lull it off gently to sleep, 
Until some glad day it will waken, 

Then some other day you will see 
Thousands of nuts from your kernel. 

And rejoice that you planted the tree. 

It's just this way with we mothers 

Who must toil the whole, busy day long, 
O'er the beaten track of "Line on Line," 

Of "Precept," lest feet go wrong. 
That some distant day in the future. 

We shall come to the fruitage time ; 
We plant thoughts deep, in God's warm soil, 

To see His Blest Likeness shine. 

Should we rudely search for the kernel, 

Selfish and half-hearted? Nay, 
We dearly may pay for the lesson, 

For O, there's a much better way 
To get measure pressed down for our trouble 

In guiding the dear little feet 
With patience and love to our Father, 

His kind approbation to meet. 



172 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

So, be not discouraged, you Mothers; 

The day may be weary and long. 
But search for the soil that is deepest, 

And, methinks, some day the strong 
Warm thought will unfold to the light, 

The buds, then, with beauty will swell ; 
You'll gather those kernels together, 

Thankful, you planted so well. 



Leland Ghent Stanford 

The San Diego Union of July 8, 1916, says the 
following : 

San Diego has a youthful poet for whom a great future is 
predicted by his friends in Leland Ghent Stanford, the fourteen- 
year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. Ira E. Stanford of 1595 Linwood 
street. He hopes soon to publish a collection of his poems under 
the tide, "Songs By a Glad Boy." 

While other youngsters are turning their enthusiasm toward the 
doings of Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker, discussing the latest styles 
in tops or driving shrewd bargains in "aggies," the "Glad Boy" 
Is finding inspiration for his music In field and sky. Nevertheless, 
he takes the healthy boy's keen Interest in sports and games, and 
when the spring days come, longs just as ardently for freedom as 
do his less literary companions. Else why should he write: 

"Vacation times are here at last; 
Ten dreary months of school are past." 

Apparently this freckle-faced, manly boy does a lot of thinking 
as he works around his father's dairy. He philosophizes, on 
"Growling," "What Means the Flag?" "Speeding," and "What 
Have We to Be Thankful For?" Nor does he overlook Nature's 
beauties, for he has written a little couplet thus: 

"The little birds are singing, the little flowers are gay; 
Our little hearts are beaming, for this is Easter Day." 

Young Stanford's best effort, and the one which has brought him 
the most attention and praise, is a poem on "The Exposition Beauti- 
ful," which has been published In pamphlet form. This poem has 
a swing that is fascinating, and it visualizes the wonders of the 
Exposition in a most Inviting manner. After reading it, Dr. Edgar 
L. Hewitt, director of exhibits, said: 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 173 

"Let us hope that this much-seeing, beauty-seeing boy will keep 
on. Leland is not singing his own thoughts only. He is reflecting 
what is in the minds of thousands of boys and girls. May he be 
their faithful interpreter." 

This youthful poet first attempted to put his metrical imaginings 
on paper at the age of nine years, and his writings have been 
prolific. He was born near Lincoln, Nebraska, and came to San 
Diego with his parents when he was four years old. He is a 
student at the Grant School, to which he has dedicated a poem. 
Stanford says that he intends to follow the literary profession, and 
is hoping that the sale of the book he is about to issue will aid 
him in future study. 

THE EXPOSITION BEAUTIFUL 

Where the great Pacific ocean rolls its billows high and roar- 
ing, 

Where the sun looks down and smiles upon the earth ; 
Where the mocking bird and oriole so gracefully are soaring, 

And where the people's hearts are full of mirth. 
In the land of sunkist harbors where the honeysuckle grows, 
Where the vineyards and the arbors their delicious fragrance 

throws. 
In the midst of all this beauty as it like a diamond gleams 
Lies the city of our longings, lies the city of our dreams. 

The Exposition's calling can be heard from sea to sea, 
As it tells the nation's millions of the things they here can see. 
It tells them of the plazas, of the buildings unsurpassed 
In beauty and in grandeur, it tells them then, at last, 
Of the foliage and the flowers on the bushes and the trees, 
Of acacias golden puff balls gently swaying in the breeze. 

It tells them of the Isthmus, where the children love to play, 
And restores to youth and spirit the head that's silver gray. 
It speaks of lovely gardens that are in grandness unexcelled. 
And tells how all the visitors are in amazement held. 
It notes the out-door organ, the largest in the world. 
With the vines and shrubs and mosses around in beauty 
curled. 



174 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

It tells them of the viaduct that spans the lake below, 
Where the reeds and water lilies, cat-tails and rushes grow. 
It talks about the soldiers who are drilling every day, 
And how the pretty pigeons coo and fly across your way. 

It tells them of the animals, the lion and the deer, 

And how the keeper pets them all and never seems to fear. 

It points the grandest canyons, where the palms and peppers 

grow, 
And where the bees and humming birds are talking soft and 

low. 

O ! you, with heart of gladness, and you, o'ercome with tears. 
Can you resist this calling that will last for many years? 
Come, see this lovely city with its banner bright unfurled. 
And see our Exposition, the grandest in the world. 
And you will know that Eden could not have had a sweeter 

mate 
Than this Southwestern corner of our beloved Golden State. 



EVENING IN CALIFORNIA 

I am gazing entranced at a beautiful sight, 
As it throws o'er the valley a soft amber light, 
Over the mountains covered with snow, 
Over the ridges and valleys below. 
It throws its rays, in a mellow gleam, 
Down on a bright and sparkling stream. 
That creeps by so lovingly, peaceful and still. 
As it glides from the heart of the valley and hill. 

Stray thoughts — be thou quiet, 

Yea, be'st thou still, 
For the moon is now rising. 

Just over the hill. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 175 

The sky it is cloudless, the moon is all gold, 

And seems to be laughing at the scene she beholds. 

Out in the sky, with a shimmering light. 

She throws her radiance into the night. 

Down on the oaks, large, sturdy and tall, 

Down on the sycamores, willows and all. 

Over the vineyards, whose fruit on the vine, 

Glories a country where all's summer time. 

How sweet to be dreaming beneath the great trees, 

And feel the light breath of a midsummer breeze ; 

How restful to know that while we shall sleep. 

The moon in the sky watchful vigils will keep. 



MOONLIGHT ON THE PACIFIC 

Some night. 

When the wind is terribly strong. 

Or a blizzard is putting everything wrong. 

It seems to you just like a song 

To know there's moonlight on the Pacific. 

A moonlight such as you see in dreams. 
It never could be true it seems. 
To float along on silver streams, 
Into the calm Pacific. 

There your rivers are clogged with snow, 
Running water but below, 
Makes all traveling so 

Unlike the broad Pacific. 

It would do you good to take a roam 
Apast the boundaries of your home. 
Leave the winds and the blizzards terrific, 
To see the moonlight on the Pacific. 



176 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Estelle Thomson 

The editor of the Land of Sunshine thus wrote: Miss Estelle 
Thomson, whose admirable sketches are welcomed by such critical 
judges as St. Nicholas, Harper's and the Outlook, is a writer of 
charming magazine articles, out-of-door studies full of the flavor 
of Southern California, but good literature anywhere. The every- 
day poetry of nature here had not before had just so sympathetic 
transcription. To remarkably fine insight, clear and unaffected, 
Miss Thomson adds the charm of a delicately accurate prose with- 
out a waste word in it, yet fluent and flexible as it is lucid. 

She has published a charming little volume, "My Paper Kids," 
full of bright and vividly descriptive verse and prose, from which 
the following selections are taken. 

OUR ORCHARDS LAUGH 

Our orchards laugh with their bloom run over ; 

A flashing wing like a sail cuts the air ; 
There's a faint red ripple of sweet-topped clover, 
A liquid note 

From the songbird's throat, 

And a dewdrop shine on the meadows fair. 

There's a plume and flutter of forms that waver, 

A fine soft murmur steals through the grass ; 
A myriad insects hum and quaver ; 
While to and fro, 
As wood-nymphs go, 
The young brakes curl where their footsteps pass. 
The morns are flushed with the hues of roses ; 

The winds, loose-leashed, s-s-s-p, merrily, tree ; 
When the sun drops down and daylight closes, 
We hear the beat 
Of fairies' feet, 
As they hang the wands of the willow tree. 

THE ANXIOUS MOCKING BIRD 

There was once a mocking bird whose whole business was 
to sing. No sooner had he emptied his musical quiver of one 
set of ditties than he began casting about for another. His 
life seemed a vast roundelay of glee, and so happy was he 
that everybody who heard him smiled and felt joy bursting 
his heart almost to breaking. This one wild bird on the 
boughtop was friend, confidant, lover and comforter to all 




THE DOME AND TOWER OF THE CALIFORNIA STATE BUILDING OVER 
THE FINE ARTS BUILDING, FROM THE SOUTH GARDENS 




RUSSIA AND BRAZIL BUILDINX, TOWER AND BELL GABLE 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 177 

that tiny portion of the world that lived around the orange 
tree. So the bird fulfilled the mission for which every one 
of us is given our being : to lift and etherialize life and make 
its hard places easier. 

In the land of the sun there were others besides the mock- 
ing bird who thought they could sing. There is a boastful 
thrasher who never tires of his musical prowess ; and although 
he was very vain they sang well together. But sometimes the 
thrasher said : "The time will come when the summer will 
be over and gone. Then how shall we be fed? I have a 
cousin, the thrush, who lives in a land they call the East, a 
land where at certain seasons grain and fruit fail and a white 
sheet known as 'the snow' will cover the land. Then birds 
would have a sorry time were it not for the few crumbs from 
the rich man's table." 

The mocking bird was sore afraid. He feared hunger. His 
palate was keen as his song was gay. How were his days to 
be prolonged when plenty was gone ? How should he subsist 
on only ''crumbs?" What if no rich man should let fall 
favors from his table? His heart was fainting within him; 
fear almost quenched his song. 

But the days sped by; and the sun shone; and the green 
world smiled ; and uncounted fruits hung coy or coquetted 
and ripened on bush and tree: and there was no want, and 
no white sheet of snow covered the land. All who gathered 
at the wild banquet board were riotous with cheer and the 
mocking bird and the thrasher were plump to bursting with 
tickling viands. 

Then hope came in a flooding gush to that little bird soul. 
Why had he been so foolish as to doubt? Of what wicked- 
ness had he been guilty ? He shook through every feather for 
the sinful thoughts that had been in him ; and, when next he 
sang, his rapturous strain trilled over and over again in 
ecstasy until those who heard him said, as with one breath: 
"That bird sings plainly 'Cheer up! Cheer up! Let not 
your heart be troubled.' " 

And there was not a glad one nor a sorry one in all that 
spot about the orange tree who did not take to himself the 
wild bird's message : "Cheer up ! Cheer up ! Let not your 
heart be troubled." 



178 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Lila Munroe Taint er 

Mrs. Tainter has written both prose and verse from childhood, 
and has received kindly notice from critics of the press, her poems 
having been copied in leading journals. In early years Richard 
Henry Stoddard and Captain Hamilton Gibson were greatly inter- 
ested in her work, and gave her much encouragement. She has 
been a contributor to magazines and newspapers for a number of 
years in both prose and poetry. 

In 1915 a collection of her poems was made entitled "A Caravel 
of Dreams." It was published by Sherman, French & Co., Boston. 
She has another book in preparation. She was for many years a 
resident of Washington, D. C, and came to San Diego from that city. 

SISTERS 

Your name Is Mary, mine is Magdalene ; 

You tread the road to heaven and I to hell; 
But why your life is pure and mine unclean, 

The Power that made us both alone can tell. 

Our spirits, dwelling in primordial flame. 
Together burned in space, nor evil knew, 

Until by unknown force we hither came. 
And I a garret found — a palace, you . 

The same hot blood flows in the veins of each ; 

In both, primeval instincts seethe and glow. 
In me they make a sinner beyond reach ; 

In you they smolder 'neath convention's snow. 

Your chaste young breast is not more fair than this, 

A pillow for desire-sated sleep ; 
My mouth is stained by many a wanton kiss. 

While yours its flower-like purity may keep. 

O Destiny, thou cruel and unjust, 

Why to the helpless issue such decrees. 
That yield some lips to love and some to lust, 

Give some the wine of life and some the lees ? 

Within my awful charnel-house in vain 

I strive 'gainst fetters of heredit}^ 
Shall I no more my lost estate regain 

When fleshly gyves my blighted soul set free ? 

From "A Caravel of Dreams," by permission of Sherman, French 
& Co. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 179 

George Whiteley Taylor 

AN ELEGY OF OLD TOWN 
(San Diego, California) 

Soft night ; so tranquil is the earth and sky ; 
The encircling hills in light and shadow lie. 

The quiet moon floats o'er the mirror sea. 

The village lights are dimming one by one 

And leave my world to dreamy reverie. 

Upon these hillsides truth and romance meet, 

Fantastic shadows pass me at their feet. 
And thought here with emotion riots free ; 
Knits tapestries of pictures dark or bright. 
As history's figures flit through memory. 

In sheen and glitter of his armor clad. 
With pomp and circumstance of war gone mad. 
With beat of drum the Peace of God to mar. 
To plant usurping standards in the sand, 
Comes gay, marauding militar. 

Or milder music swells on passing breeze. 

Its lilting cadenced by the swaying trees, 
In rhythmic time to measured dip of oar, 
His light barge skirting close the pebbled shore. 
Comes brightly-turbaned troubadour. 

At signal from her pirate-lover's ship. 

To keep her secret tryst in sea-wrought crypt, 

An Indian maid from reed-built bower, 

O'er tide-washed flights of sandy stair. 

Comes stealing at this lonely hour. 

But more; another spirit yet my memory thrills. 
Of those who peopled once these sun-burned hills. 

I linger near his cross and share his pain. 

The glory of this goodly earth to lose — 

Oh, penance harsh — a heaven to gain. 



180 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

A hooded monk with crucifix and beads. 

No 'frighting host of warriors bold he leads. 

But stealing lone from tule-thatched village nigh, 
He trudging climbs and chants his litanies, 
Imploring heaven these may not die. 

This, Serra, was thy Mount of Calvary, 

And up its steep, wearing God's livery, 

Bearing thy cross of mortal pain and mental agony, 
With cold, unsandaled, bleeding feet. 
Thou entered thy Gethsemane. 

At morning grey I see a ship to anchor swing, 
Aud furl her sail, like tired bird her wing. 

A boat is lowered from the galleon's rail 

And to the haven draweth in 

With shout and answering hail. 

God's benison and answer to thy plea. 
When none would watch an hour with thee. 

Here's succor for a starving, faithless band. 

Here's news of home and friends — in troth 

The outreach of an Almighty hand. 

'Tis such high faith as thine that saves the day. 
When lesser souls have ceased to watch or pray. 

Sees through the night by faith's unclouded ray 

And hfts us to the mountain heights 

Where God's lights play. 

And bowing, 'neath this ancient-planted palm 
And olive trees that breathe devotion's calm. 
Here, by this mountain-mirroring bay. 
Whose floor tonight soft moonlight fills — 
Here "Let us pray!" 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 181 



Bertha Bliss Tyler 



Bertha Bliss Tyler is a native of New York State, having 
obtained her early education and diploma from Mynderse Academy, 
Seneca Falls, New York. Later she studied music in Hartford, 
Connecticut, with a pupil of Moscheles, of Paris, after which she 
returned to her native place^ and taught piano, until, as an invalid, 
she went into the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York, 
where she resided several years. During this period she wrote 
"Adirondack Sketches," including a number of poems, showing her 
love of nature, and her power of description. 

In 1913 she left Boston for San Diego, taking the ocean voyage 
to Galveston. The literary atmosphere of San Diego, together with 
studies in versification and journalistic writing with Grace Duffie 
Boylan, poet, author and journalist, late of the Chicago Journal, 
became a stimulus to greater literary effort, which has resulted 
in the following publications: "Evening: Panama-California Expo- 
sition," "Paean of Peace," "Cordial Greetings," "Some Merry Little 
Men," and "Christmas in the Hills," taken from "Adirondack 
Sketches." 

Under a nom de plume she has written a series of love poems, 
and also one in lighter vein, written in earlier years, called "When 
Mary Looks at Me." Her latest style and development is found in 
her recent publications, "The Star of Christmas Morn," and "At 
Christmas Time." 



WHEN MARY LOOKS AT ME 

My heart within me gives one bound. 
And in love's raging sea I'm drowned, 
When Mary looks at me. 

My reason to itself takes wings, 
I say a thousand foolish things, 
When Mary looks at me. 

My soul goes quickly out of this, 
Transported to a world of bliss. 
When Mary looks at me. 

"Her eyes are homes of silent prayer," 
I feel a benediction rare. 

When Mary looks at me. 

To you alone the truth I'll tell: 
My happiness is measured well, 
When Mary looks at me. 



182 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

THY LOVE 

Beloved, what our harbor of the sun 

Is to the craft upon the ocean tossed, 
A haven's rest vi^hen tempest-course is run, 

Art thou to me ; when worldling's depths are crossed 
I come unto the bosom of thy love 

Serene with truth, and calm beyond compare 
With hope's own peace, and e'er above 

The brightness of thy sun of joy to share, 
To bask in it, rejoice, and rest content 
In all its warmth and light full heaven-sent. 

WHAT CONSTITUTES GINGER CORDIAL* 

Many different notions there are about good coffee. The 
believer in stimulants calls good that brewing having strength 
sufficient for his purpose ; the epicurean demands richness in 
the beverage and its trimmings; the fastidious man seeks the 
freshness and daintiness of the cup quickly brewed and 
served ; and the healthseeker raises his cup of cereal coffee. 

But the man of larger appetite finds his loving-cup over- 
flowing with the following draught : 

Add seven grains of mirth to seven quarts of 
common sense^ and let stand over night until thoroughly 
blended. In the morning, add seven gills of effervescing love- 
for-all-mankindj and you will have a stimulant always ready 
to support the weak and tempt the strong. 

EVENINGt 

(Panama-California Exposition) 

A tribute to John Vance Cheney, World-Poet, San Diegan. 

It is late afternoon in the Plaza de Panama of the Exposi- 
tion Grounds. The crowds have scattered ; the immense area 
of the Plaza is emptied of all but a few lingering pedestrians, 
and those who fill the benches at its sides. The hundreds of 
doves have gone to their rest, a few only leisurely fluttering 



*Copyright, 1915, by Bertha Bliss Tyler. 
fCopyright, 1916, by Bertha Bliss Tyler. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 183 

back and forth from floor to tower. It is the "pale, delaying 
hour," when "whoso seeks them here . . . 

Shall make their own the hymn of rest begun 
When the shadows say the summer day is done ;" 
. . . "the psalm of peace, suffusing sweet 
Ineffable, fallen on the twilight hush." 

Nor unlike this softness of light is that from the ceilings 
of all the corridors. These unseen lights from the exquisitely 
delicate salmon pink chandeliers are in satisfying contrast to 
the whiteness of the buildings. 

Pictures they are: Each Mission Arch as seen from the 
corridors framing artistic groups and masses of shrubbery and 
vines and blossoms, while the "light leaves" shake "with 
winds feeling along their evening way." 

It is six o'clock when the Exposition Band breaks the 
reveries of the quiet assemblage with its rhythmic strains, 
startling the ears with joy in its swelling harmonies. For a 
half-hour the rich, full-toned music fills the Plaza. Imme- 
diately the lights appear from all the pedestals placed regu- 
larly between the acacia trees — as regular and symmetrical as 
the uniformly trimmed trees. About fifteen feet in height 
are these bronze pedestals, surmounted by oval opaque closed 
globes — the lights bringing out the beauty of the trees and the 
trees shadowing the lights, a mingled glory of light and shade. 

Between the Fine Arts Building and the Arts and Crafts 
Building lie the Gardens at the entrance to the pergola, with 
their artistic stone benches, where one lingers in the quiet 
beauty of light, and deepening shades, and blossoms, and 
fragrance, — "rich as at eve the honeysuckle lends," — per- 
chance to rejoice with the snail in his lordly hour of unob- 
structed traversing across the garden paths and back again, 
his course marked by a silver shining trail ; and perchance to 
rest in a sweet reluctance to enter the paths of the crowning 
beauty of an Exposition Evening — the Pergolas. 

Upon entering the Pergolas the marvelous balancing of 
light and shade, so characteristic of all the lighting of the 
Exposition Grounds, is nowhere more apparent. In the nar- 
row path leading to the Lower Pergola one is conscious of 
an unveiling of Nature's hidden beauties. The very trees 



184 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

crowd close in tender, embracing greeting; every leaf has its 
radiant perfection in the white light of the electric sentinels; 
while here and there, nodding and swaying gently in the 
evening breeze, dainty sprays of acacia trees screen the lights. 

The Lower Pergola is reached, a corridor with heavy, 
vine-encircled pillars, rich in reddish bronze foliage ; and 
trellised roof, of trailing vines, dotted with innumerable 
opaque globes of light, — tiny stars in "greenest leafage." One 
can only enter and accept spontaneously the gracious invita- 
tion of the first green bench. From across the depths of the 
dark wooded canyon at the side, "a little wind at the wood's 
edge plays," unlocking the little shoots and tendrils of the 
pillar-encircling vines, like stray locks of curly hair enhanc- 
ing the beauty of a charming face. 

Beyond the Pergola lay the circling path, edging the rise of 
the velvety sward : — 

"Yon grass — there, too, I see 
Suspicious gallantry; 
Each spear unto his sweeting 
Whispers a secret greeting." 

Passing the way to the Palm Jungle, and returning to the 
long, wide Upper Pergola, the circling path ends, where it 
began, in the Entrance Gardens, where "leaf on leaf the cool 
trees droop in sleep." 

"Who listens well hears Nature on her round. 
When least she thinks it ; bird and bough and stream 
Not only, but her silences profound. 
Surprised by nicer cunning of his dream." 

SOME MERRY LITTLE MENf 

Some merry little men 

Had a merry little Day, 
Because the dear old Santa 

Had a merry little way 



fBertha Bliss Tyler. Copyright, 1915. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 185 

Of placing in their stockings 

Just the things that give them joy: 
Some candy, nuts and raisins, 

And besides the dearest toy 
Like a beetle, big and shiny, 

And with wings that flap, flap, flap. 
When he runs across the table, 

Just to make us clap, clap, clap. 
And then he brought them pictures 

And story-books and balls ; 
And then, to keep them tidy, 

He brought them "Koveralls." 
Now these merry little men, 

On this merry little Day, 
Because the dear old Santa, 

In his merry little way. 
Had been to them so loving. 

So good and tender, too, 
Just thought they'd be like Santa 

And be good the whole year through, 
And be merry, just as merry, 

And happy every day. 
As the merry, happy Santa 

In his merry little way. 



Elsie] ewett Webster 

Mrs. Webster was born in Missouri, where she received a com- 
mon school and some high school education. When she was sixteen 
her family moved to Kansas, where she had more schooling. There 
she met Grant M. Webster, to whom she was married. For a while 
the couple lived in New Mexico and then came to California, first 
to San Bernardino; in 1910, to San Diego. Her father, Dr. John J. 
Jewett, was both newspaper editor and writer of poems, and his 
daughter thus naturally has the poetic instinct. Being interested in 
all matters of social reform, many of Mrs. Webster's poems natur- 
ally are full of the spirit of human brotherhood and militant 
democracy. 



186 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

LOVE'S QUESTIONING 

I wonder in what other life than this 

My heart hath recognized and crowned thee king. 
I wonder in what realm of pain or bliss, 

My soul hath flown to thee on quickened wing. 

My love for thee is all too great, it seems, 

To gather in this little span of days. 
More sure that flitting fancy's fairy dreams, 

We fared together in far other ways. 

How could my heart so quickly call to thine, 

And lay its dearest treasures at thy feet, 
Had I not made, in some past life of mine, 

By loving thee, some preparation sweet? 

Does no voice call thee love thro' all the distance ? 

Does no fair ghost before thy vision rise, 
Revealing to thy soul that old existence, 

And whispering to thine ear: *'Love never dies?" 

From Time's beginning I have loved thee, dear. 
Thro' all the countless ages that have flown. 

In all our dreamy life times, far or near. 
My heart has gladly echoed to thine own. 

And will this fair love-light burn low at last. 
And all this passion's flame that warms my world ? 

When silence comes and Earth and Now are past, 
Will this uplifted torch away be hurled ? 

What mean these dream-shaped memories, this future hope? 

This white mist rolling in from Time's great sea, 
Inwrapped in which we stumble, strive and grope 

Toward some full sunlight of eternity ? 

Will we see face to face in some clear shining ? 

Will a tomorrow bring us love again ? 
Is there no meaning in the soul's divining 

Of a warm, pulsing past of love and pain ? 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 187 

I cannot answer and you cannot tell me : 

We wander mist-enshrouded, with no ray. 
But fleeting dreams and hope and life impel me 

To cry: "Come, live and love, we have today." 



THE CALL OF THE OPEN AIR 

The wind in the tree top calls to me, 
''Come out in the open, come and be free." 

The sun on the hillside laughs in glee. 

And dances and beckons : **Come, play with me." 

The rainbow waves sing clear to me, 

"Come, chant with us the song of the sea." 

I serve in the restless marts of trade, 
Where men walk warily and afraid. 

I dwell in a house that is made with hands, 
That left their weariness on its plans. 

I have known of love, of sorrow, of sin. 
Of the daily stress and the battle's din. 

I have felt Life's heat and its biting cold. 
And my soul is old as Time is old. 

I have drained life's lies and drank its truth, 
And my heart still answers the cry of youth. 

The wind in the tree top calls to me : 
"Come out in the open, come and be free." 

And the sun on the hillside laughs in glee. 

And dances and beckons: "Come, play with me." 



188 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

"LOOSE HIM AND LET HIM GO''— John 11:44 

Loose him and let him go. 
Take from his head the many folds 

Of mildewed superstitions. Unbind 
His forehead, let Today shine on it. 
Take oH the grave mould of old yesterdays, 
Thick grown and smothering, from his face. 
Unwind the wrappings from that stiffened jaw 
And the choked throat, that he may speak — 
May voice the hungry cry of human kind 
For Life, more Life, abundant Life. 

Tear from his shackeled hands the folds 
Of long dead ordinances, mouldy laws. 
That bind the muscles so the frozen clutch 
Is ever on the dead. Let loose those hands 
To grasp the things he did create 
To build his life. Unwrap his lungs, 
That he may draw free air in deeper breaths. 
That these pale hands, benumbed and cold, 
May fill and flush with influx of new blood. 
And reach to grasp Desire. Set free 
The heart to throb in harmony 
With hearts that live and beat, attuned 
To Liberty's glad music. Take oflE 
The shrouding grave clothes of a soul, 
Throw back into the tomb the binding rags 
Of dead beliefs, but let the Man come forth. 
To all the fullness of his heritage. 

Loose him and let him go. Tho' dark. 
Blood-stained and rough the way he walks. 
Yet always will his face be to the sky. 
Loose him and let him go. Give him the Earth, 
And he will find his own way to the Sun. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 189 

I WOULD THAT MEN WERE FREE 

I would that men were free ; 
That not one man in all the world 
Had need to beg of any other man 
The opportunity for toil to earn his bread. 
That not again while we count time or dream of heaven 
Need any man go to a brother man and say : 
"Give me of toil. No matter what the kind, 
How long the dragging hours I w^ork at it, 
How weary are my limbs, how spent my strength 
When night comes down, I must have work. 
I beg of you for work. My wife is hungry 
And my children weep unclothed." 

And while the beggar stands with hanging head 
And hard hands knotted in a clasp of pain, 
The other twirls an idle thumb and with 
Offensive look talks glibly of a wage, 
Or dickers meanly for a few pence less ; 
Then gives the man a chance to toil for him 
For just enough to keep life creeping on 
With scarce the boon of hope ; a death in life. 
And often not the chance to be a slave 
And create wealth unto a master's hand 
Is given, but a careless shoulder shrug. 
And "I have nothing for you." This the word 
That many a desperate pleader hears for all his prayer. 

I would that never while Time kept his pace 
Any woman full of the will to live, 
Pulsing with joy of youth and dreams and hope. 
Had ever need to sell herself for bread. 
Either her body for man's lust, or her hand's work, 
Her youth, her splendid energy, her opportunity 



190 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

For happy wifehood or for motherhood, 

The chance to mold her own life her own way, - 

Or any form of her diviner self 

Bartered for food to keep her body's life. 

We sell our men and women in the marts, 
We drown our arts in fierce commercialism. 
Our music in the clatter of a coin, 
Our poetry in mad pursuit of gain. 
Our souls in weary chase for futile toys. 
We wrap our honor and our justice in a flag 
And bury them 'neath mounds of empty words 
Chanted by politicians cadenced tongues. 
Then wonder life seems dead and souls expressionless. 

What genius buried in our refuse heaps. 
What pictures, poems, statutes lie beneath 
The debris of our heaped up wastefulness. 
How have we sent our songsbirds to this pile. 
And tossed our painters there daubed with their blood. 
And torn the music of our poet's songs 
To kindle fires of lust that burn us out. 

I would that men were free to be the best: 
To give unto men's hearts the shining dreams 
That come in childhood and the years blot out. 
As hopeless poverty or glutted wealth 
Close on the vision. Only men 
Who have been free to dream can send forth sons 
Who will be true. And only women who 
Have held their bodies free from sale for lust, 
To share with Love his Holy Place, can bring forth daughters 
Who can sing the rhythmic song of chastity. 

That men be free ! that is the dream of ages. 
And the passion that creates the stars and sends them forth. 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 191 

Marguerite Wilkinson 

Marguerite Wilkinson was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 
1884, daughter of Nathan Kellogg Bigelow. She was educated at 
Evanston High School, 111., Northwestern University, and the 
Misses Ely's School when it was in New York City. 

Her first serious and effective verse was accepted by Dr. Wil- 
liam Hayes Ward, for the New Yoxkjndependent, and she has been 
an occasional contributor to it ever since. 

Mrs. Wilkinson was editor of the Poetry Page of the Los 
Angeles Graphic; and of her work in this connection, the editor, 
Samuel T. Clover (now editor of the Richmond, Fa., Evening 
Journal), wrote: 

"As a critical and analytical writer, Mrs. Wilkinson has distinct 
power. Her feature articles for the Los Angeles Graphic, under 
my administration — which publication paid great attention to belles 
lettres — attracted national interest, as they deserved, for her pur- 
view was countrywide. Mrs. Wilkinson's pungent yet sympathetic 
reviews of new volumes of poetry were particularly noteworthy. 
She is a poet herself and of no ordinary caliber. Anything from 
her pen always commands place in the best publications in the 
country." 

She is also author of "In Vivid Gardens," "By a Western Way- 
side" and "The Passing of Mars." She is a member of the Poetry 
Society of America and of the Authors' League of America. Her 
contributions have appeared in all the leading magazines. East and 
West, and she is now editor of the poetry pages in Books and Au- 
thors, published monthly in New York, contributes a weekly literary 
letter to The E'vening Journal, of Richmond, Va., and has a vol- 
ume — "Anthology of California Verse" — soon to be published. 



CORONADO SKETCHES 

THE FOG THAT COMES IN AT NIGHT 

A little while ago the sky was clear, 
A wild blue wine for our young eyes to drink, 
A wine in which the stars were jolly bubbles, 
Poised, sparkling in the depths. 

But while we looked 
A milky cloud flooded the splendid cup 
And hid the bubble stars and made opaque 
That which our eyes were drinking. 

But our spirits 
Drank yet more deep of a wonder yet more dear! 



192 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

A NIGHT ON THE BEACH 

Where beach verbenas lay their little cold leaves 
Upon dry sand, and lift their sticky-wet blossoms 
Pale purple in the dav^n, and where the primrose 
With healthy golden passion fights the tides 
For space in which to flaunt her echoed sunlight, 
There, after hours upon the tossing waters, 
We spread our blankets and lay down to rest. 
And there we met and knew the blessed Night, 
Who is the mother of Peace. And there we found 
The Morning, in whose womb was Joy conceived. 

FULFILLMENT— A BRIDE'S PSALM OF JOY 

The graj^beards had compassion on me in my day of rejoicing, 

For they said, "She does not know." 

The snowy crowned old women shook tears from their eyes, 

For they said, "She is innocent." 

The young men and women who had gone on before me 

smiled wistfully, 
For they said, "She also is young." 
Even the cynics advised me, 

For they thought I was about to go the way of all flesh. 
One and all, they saw my bud blasted and my sunlight 

shadowed, 
My dream routed, my vision eclipsed, giving place to merely 

practical satisfaction ; 
They saw my soul besmirched, perhaps destroyed. 

They warned me of disappointment that I might not be 

disappointed ; 
Of sadness, that I might not be too often sad ; 
Of pain, that I might not sufiEer too deeply ; 
Of the carnal, that I might be able, perchance, to save a 

partial soul alive. 
Tears they tried to pour into my cup of rapture, 
That a wonted taste might give no shock of bitterness. 
They would have girded my waist with fire, in all kindliness, 
That I might feel the less the brand of ruthless desire: 





EAST FACADE, RUSSIA AND BRAZIL BUILDING 




ONE OF THE PERGOLAS 




JUAXITA MILLER, IX ONE OF HER CLASSIC DANCES 



SAN DIEGO WRITERS 193 

For they said : "There is somewhat of crape beneath every 
wedding veil." 

All this, because they loved me. And yet I went on my way 

heedless and confident. 
Heedless of compassions and advice, confident that the 

warnings were vain ; 
Nourishing in my heart the bud of promise, warm with 

sunlight, ' 

Refusing the tears and the firebrand; 
For I had faith in the hands that held me, in the eyes that 

met mine. 
In the proud pledge of his mind, in the beauty of his spirit — 
Thus I went on my way. 

In the evening I slept, and in the morning I awoke and 

knocked at the door of my soul, demanding entrance. 
And I asked, "What cheer, O Soul? 
What of the hour of knowledge ? 
What of the day of fulfillment?" 

Then my soul arose and stood before me, naked and fearless. 
And answered me proudly : 
"Open the windows that the old men and women may look 

in and see my sunlight ! 
Open the windows that the young men and women may catch 

the scent of my perfect blossom ! 
Open the windows that the music of my joy may go out 

to confound the cynics ! 
Tell them that I am not saddened, neither am I disappointed. 
No, not for a fraction of time. 

Show them that there is no suffering for me, save gladness ; 
That I am not at war with the flesh, nor is the flesh divided 

from me against me. 
Lo, I am whole, sane, sound, more glorious than before. 
For my dream is become actuality. 
My vision is become fulfillment. 
My ideal is become as God ; He mounts His throne and 

reigns. 
For me there are no tears, there is no brand of fire !" 



194 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Maribel Yates 

The writing of Mrs. E. N. Yates covers an intermittent period 
of more than fifteen years, and ranges from newspaper contributions, 
chiefly to the Kansas City Journal, in the earlier years, through 
the Saturday E'vening Post, the Kansas Magazine and various 
farming journals and other periodicals, to the present time. She is 
a regular contributor of both prose and verse to a prominent church 
publication, and is represented in the first volume of "American 
Poets," published by the McLean Publishing Company of Baltimore, 
Maryland. She now has material for two volumes which have 
been editorially approved and recommended for independent pub- 
lication in the near future. 

IN AFTER YEARS 

Whence comes this Shape which haunts my path ! Its glance 

allures, but yet repels ; 
It seems familiar, yet unknown; like strains forgot, or 

Dreamland spells. 
Its drap'ries float like foamy mist, but hold within a lurid 

glow. 
Avaunt ye, Shape ! I like ye not. Why dost thou taunt and 

mock me so? 
Ye 'mind me, vaguely, of those years of foolish youth, ere 

fancy tired. 
The Vision smiled: "I am the phantom of those joys thy 

youth desired!" 

Whence come ye, lovely bloom, to sway thy golden censer at 

my door ? 
I know ye not ; and yet I feel that I have met thee oft before. 
Abide ye, alway, for ye bring a tender sadness, strangely 

sweet — 
More sweet than mirth. For many years I followed Joy 

with eager feet 
And found but Grief! The Vision smiled, and said : "Thou 

shalt be joyous yet; 
I am the fragrant flow'r which springs from disappointment, 

bravely met." 



CHAPTER VI 

GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 

By Bertha Bliss Tyler 

In Dr. James's original plan as agreed to by the Exposi- 
tion officials there was no suggestion made of a day for him- 
self. But as the work of the Literature Class progressed, 
and more Authors' Days were held, a desire was soon 
expressed by both members of the Class and the various 
audiences that it would be altogether inappropriate to fail to 
devote a day to the honor of Dr. James himself. The Expo- 
sition Directors themselves fostered this sentiment. They 
called attention to the many occasions on which he had acted 
as the orator of the Exposition, in giving highly specialized 
addresses, as on Olive Day, Junipero Serra Day, Hawaii 
Day, Bird Box Day, Bunker Hill Day, National Peace Day, 
Audubon Day, etc., and expressed themselves as desirous that 
a day should be set apart in his honor. Dr. James, however, 
always laughed at the suggestion and refused to entertain it. 
At last, however, a few prominent members of the Literature 
Class, realizing what he had done for them and the Expo- 
sition and community through his California Literature, 
Browning, Tagore, and other lectures, and also by inaugur- 
ating and successfully conducting the California Authors' 
Days, took the matter up with the officials with the result 
that they not only set apart December 27 as George Whar- 
ton James Day, but agreed to present to him the Gold Medal 
of the Exposition, as a token of the special services he had 
thus rendered. 

This, in brief, is the true history of the George Wharton 
James Day. As soon as it was made known, many tributes 
of appreciation, affection and esteem were received, some of 
which are included in what follows. 

The San Diego Tribune of December 28, 1916, thus 
opens its report of the day in honor of the organizer of the 
Literature Class : 



196 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

"The climax of interest and enjoyment in the California 
Authors' Days was reached yesterday in the celebration of 
George Wharton James day. The program was held at the 
organ pavilion at 1 p. m., beginning with a concert of grand 
opera selections by Tommasino's band. 

"On the organ platform, which was decorated with palms, 
was placed a table holding the bust of Dr. James, by Miss 
Mann, sculptor, to be given to the public library. Friends 
of Dr. James, and members of the literature class, were 
seated on the platform. The Rev. Charles E. Spalding, rec- 
tor of the Episcopal church of Coronado, presiding, opened 
the program with the reading of "Love Bouquet," by Miss 
Juanita Miller, daughter of Joaquin Miller : 

LOVE BOUQUET 
To you who drew the opaque veil of ignorance from our lives, 
Taught us to see the light and so you showed us paradise: 
Then white for the souls that you have soothed and red for the 

healed heart — 
These flowers that we are giving you are of ourselves a part. 

"Miss Adelheide Kaufmann, bearing a bouquet of white 
carnations, and Miss Celia MacDonald, of Pasadena, bearing 
a bouquet of red carnations, then entered, from each side of 
the organ presenting the flowers to Dr. James. Tied to each 
bouquet were messages of appreciation, written by friends of 
the distinguished litterateur, some of which were read by Dr. 
Spaulding, These are some of the messages: 

TO GEORGE WHARTON JAMES: 

By Elsie Jewett Webster^ 

The Old Franciscan Missions stand guard along the way, 
Like gray and ghostly sentinels of a dead, forgotten day: 
As Through Ramonas Country we wander and are lost 
In the splendors that surround us and the wonders of the 

coast. 
We talked of Indian Basketry, that patient Basket Making, 
That miracle of weaving to which we're just awaking. 
Of The Indians of the Desert, Painted like the sunset sea, 
Of birds and flowering glories that beckon you and me. 



tThe names in italics are of books by George Wharton Jamei. 




ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 




AIRS. ELLA LORIXE PALMER, WHO SAN'G FRED EMERSON BROOKS' 
SOXG OX GEORGE WHARTOX JAMES DAY 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 197 

Of that fair spot of dreaming where the pure Lake of the Sky 
Lies like a burning jewel while the clouds float softly by. 
Then we spoke of him who wove the threads of beauty into 

words, 
The Indians, the missions, the flowers and the birds ; 
And dropped the golden note of calm into our troubled strife, 
That sung now ''Quit Your Worrying,'' and "Live the 

Radiant Life" 

By Ida Ghent Stanford 

Dear Dr. James, we wish you joy. 

And Peace and Happiness sublime ; 
We pray that God may still through you 
His gracious Presence shine; 
That men may learn the things worth while 

Things broad, and deep, and True, 
Long may you live in perfect health — 

Under California's blue. 

By Minnie Hardy 

Like the great granite higher Sierras 

That lift their bright peaks to the sun, 
And shine through the lowering rain-clouds — 

Saying: "Lord, if it's rain, let it come." 

Or the giant, majestic Sequoias — 

For centuries so stately and tall — 
Reaching out their great arms to the Storm-God, 

Saying, "Lord, if it's snow, let it fall." 

For sunshine is the joy of our life-time; 

And rain, like our tears, make a part ; 
And snow is a soft, fleecy blanket 

To cover some poor broken heart. 

From the lily and rose of the valley, 

To the rivers and rocks far above — 
Of your beauty, oh, great California! 

He has taught us to know and to love. 



198 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

And bravely he faces life's problems, — 
Like the sun shining back on the range 

Is reflected God's smile of approval, 

On the kind face of George Wharton James. 

By Elizabeth Howard Hyde 

You're blessed with many friends ; 

All o'er the world they're found, 
Some wing aloft in yon blue sky ; 

And some live under ground. 

Some gather with the great of earth ; 

Are known in halls of fame. 
Some till the soil and live in huts ; 

Some you know not by name. 

With us who've gathered here each week 

You've shared your world-gleaned treasures, rare — 

And we will treasure you, in thought. 

And these last days at our own FAIR. 
For:— 

You gave us the best thought of our own sages ; 
You gleaned the best from our new writers' pages ; 
You gave us new ears for Wisdom and Truth, 
And receipts for renewing our Youth. 
What if you used words — not always polite ! 
You were never sneering, stupid or trite. 
At times some fault with our ways you would find, 
But usually you were Gracious and Kind ! 
If a quick, harsh word were needed to spur, 
You gave it — without taunt or slur. 
You gave freely of Time, Knowledge and Pence ; 
You gave Lovingly, without Recompense. 

By G. W. Osborn 

Responsive to the whispered note 

That in the dewdrop dwells ; 
Attuned to catch the crashing chord 

That in the ocean swells. 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 199 

What magic waked thy soul to grasp 
Such things where we hear nought ? 

What far-reached finger touched thine eye 
And showed the visions sought ? 

Or dost thou give the greater hope 

Can souls from sordid stupor waked 

Find worlds on worlds within ? 

By Adaline Bailhache 

O teacher, unafraid to speak, 

Thy inmost thought in words of flame, 
Impervious to either praise or blame, 

From great or small, from strong or weak, 

Teach us high ideals to seek. 

Arouse our souls from thoughts mundane 
That we may seek the higher plane 

Above the mist-enveloped peak. 

Like Serra, Browning, and Tagore, 

Thou hast to us a message brought 

Of joyous radiance and light. 
O may this light forevermore 
Illumine lessons thou hast taught 

To make life's highway sweet and bright. 

By Katherine Howard 

Patriarch ; Comrade ; Friend : At your best 

The wild, sweet spirit of the gold Southern West. 

You will jump the traces, you will preach to ladies in your 

braces, 
And you will say words that make them shiver and cry "Oh !" 
But the same ladies come each day to shiver because they 

like it so. 
Ah ! there's a sportive soul that peeps from your deep wisdom 
That binds us with a swift chain to a laughing star, 
Link after link — a chain that reaches far. 



200 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

One golden link I'll leave in little old New York, 

And one I'll take with me to well-loved France, 

And with a slender cord of memory I'll enlace 

Them with the links of love in San Diego, so nothing can 

efface 
The memory of these cordial days, or of the ways 
So utterly your own ! 

Just a swift, passing hand-clasp has been mine ; 

Just a few words of understanding, when somewhere, any- 
where, 

We've met ... It is enough — there has been sympathy: 

And maybe on another star — perchance while walking 

On a sapphire wall — we'll stop in passing for just another 
word 

Of how we met in San Diego at the Expo., and we'll say: 

"Do you remember how beautiful it was?" 

We will establish wireless from Heaven's sapphire wall to 
San Diego. 

By Jessie F. Dean 

O thou great teacher, brave and kind and strong. 
How thou hast stored thy mind with treasures rich. 
Gleaned from the world of books, the world of men, 
And from the great out-doors that God hath made ! 
Daily we crowd around to fill our cups 
With wisdom poured so freely forth for us, 
And go away with mind and soul refreshed. 

Roar on, O mighty lion! Shake thy long mane, and even 

growl; 
We know thy heart is good and ruled by justice. 
So thunder forth thy messages of truth. 
Till their vibrations reach earth's farthest shore. 
Hurl thy defiance in the teeth of wealth. 
Of false ambition, tyranny, and greed. 
And fight for the down trodden. 
Send forth thy writings fraught with light and life 
To all who hunger for the better way : 
Thou'rt helping bring the golden age of love. 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 201 

JUST LIKE DR. WHARTON JAMES 

By Louise Remondino Stahel 

Just a ray of sunshine, 

Just a little thought, 
Just a bit of happiness, 

Many a heart has sought. 

Just a word of kindness, 

Just a little smile. 
Just a sound of laughter. 

Makes the world worth while. 

By Frederick D. Webley 

Friend, I bring you a tribute now; 

Why should I wait until you are dead. 
To wreathe a chaplet upon your brow. 

And say the words that wait to be said ? 

O there would many a prayer be said, 

And there would many a song be sung, 
By those you have helped, could thoughts be wed. 

To speech or music upon the tongue. 

And this is the simple prayer we pray — 
"May his life be lengthened many a year!" 

For those who falter beside the way 
Will take fresh courage if you are near. 

'Tis yours to interpret Nature's things, 

And read from the rocks her histories. 
Still, Godward lead to the Living Springs, 

And teach us of Life's deep mysteries. 

As you turn the pages of Nature's books 

We scent the violets, blue and white, 
And lilies, hidden in sheltered nooks. 

We found together up Shasta's height. 



202 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

We hear the song of the mocking bird ; 

O! Is it Pan's, or the thrush's pipe? 
No sweeter music is ever heard 

Than the song of the Radiant Life. 

We pass with you to the Indian land 

Of the brother braves who hold you Chief ; 

You speak of the great All-Father's hand, 
And lead them higher through your belief. 

We follow with you the mountain trail 

Of the high Sierras to the clouds, 
And watch the sunrise over the vale 

And the splendors pierce where the mist enshrouds. 

Through Yosemite follow the call. 

And worship there in the Big Tree Grove, 

Where the Dryad's call from the waterfall 
Blend with the notes of the sylvan dove. 

Not Thoreau's love for the wilderness. 
Or, Muir's for the peaks the skies enfold, 

Surpass the ardor that you possess 
For California's skies of gold. 

O, if we only could live once more 

That marvellous day, that perfect night, 

When we left the blue Pacific's shore 
And lost ourselves in the desert's might. 

Stretching before lay the desert floor, 

Luminous, palpitant, dreamy, vast ; 
A hundred leagues seemed only a score 

To where Gorgonio's shade was cast. 

The sunrise burst like an opal flame, 

Bathing with splendor the earth and skies; 

And the desert trail to the hills became 
Like a pathway open to Paradise. 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 203 

And now I know of life's desert road ! 

'Tis the Comrade love with its magic leaven, 
That brightens the road, and lightens the load. 

And makes the pathway into heaven. 

By Bertha Lowry Gwynne 

I wish I knew as much as you do, Doctor James; 

The future holds for me few higher aims 

Than just to know as much as you do. Doctor James! 

To know about the ways of birds and bees ; 

All California authors ; the big trees ; 

The Injuns, How to Live the Radiant Life, 

How best reclaim the desert, train a wife ; 

To find the sermons in the stones, the tales in running brooks ; 

Possess the technique that makes you the ultimate of cooks ; 

Just how to make that famous soup of fruits. 

And, on the other hand, live frabjously 

By merely chewing roots ; 

And how to set a broken leg and patch up leaky lungs, 

And how to speak decorously in fifty-seven tongues ; 

To swim, to sing, to spiel, to give ; 

To keep the hearts of hosts of friends ! 

In short — to live ! 

O, I should love to know as much as you do, Doctor James ; 

I'd surely be the happiest of dames 

If I knew half as much as you do. Doctor James ! 

By Helen Richardson Brown 

Some eyes there be that only see the great, 

The brilliant, shining, mighty things of earth ; 

Some only hear the strongest, loudest voice. 
And deem the others of but little worth. 

But one there is of more discerning tyt : 

He would not spare a flower from the field ; 

He would not drop a star from heaven's host, 
Nor lose the smallest song-bird Spring can yield. 



204 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

And so he sets us up where all may see, 

And echoes loud our song that all may hear ; 

God bless his kindly understanding soul, 

And give him peace throughout the coming year ! 

By Rose Hartwick Thorpe 

We have followed you through the Authors' Days 

In this nineteen-sixteen year ; 
You have crowned each one with a wreath of praise ; 

You have spoken words of cheer ; 
You have found the best in the written thought, 

And presented it to view. 

Now we California authors come 

With our tribute of praise for you : 
We bring you our hearts' desire of good ; 

Our loyal friendship and gratitude. 

By Edwin Markham 

Comrade, glowing with the West, 
Full of ardor, full of rest. 
Here's my lifted hand to you 
In the land my boyhood knew. 

Comrade, where the happy hours 
Touch with flying feet the flowers. 
What your kindly hand has sown 
Waits till Judgment to be known. 

Comrade, brave with brother love — 
Heart of lion, heart of dove — 
Heaven will give you a golden pack 
If she gives your own deeds back. 

At the conclusion of the reading of the Messages President 
G. A. Davidson, of the Exposition, gave an address of appre- 
ciation of Dr. James' work at the Exposition, and spoke of 
having known him for twenty-five years, as one of the great 
lecturers of the United States, from whose lectures he had 
always received joy, instruction and pleasure. He then 




^-^ • 


4 

1 






■ ■ '%^' 




-l#'^' ... ,'i*';w5.^' ■■'^*- ■ ,': . "•' 



CHARLKS WARREN STODDARD 




GATE OF SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA QUADRANGLE 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 205 

presented Dr. James with a certificate of a gold medal award, 
the medal itself not yet having arrived, to be given later, for 
Dr. James' distinguished services at the Exposition. 

Then followed a vocal solo, entitled ''George Wharton 
James," words by Fred Emerson Brooks, music by Dr. H. J. 
Stewart, and sung by Mrs. Ella L. Palmer, soprano, recently 
of New York City, formerly soloist of First Church of 
Christ, Scientist, of Kansas City, Mo. Mrs. Palmer, in a 
clear, rich, powerful voice, gave a most expressive and sym- 
pathetically appreciative rendering of Mr. Brooks' unique 
words, and Dr. Stewart's distinctive melody. Dr. Stewart 
accompanied on the piano. 

The following is Mr. Brooks' song: 

A voice of silver with a heart of gold : 
A heart as big as mortal frame can hold, 
A brain wherein the seed of wisdom lies 
A soul that lights the portals of the eyes. 
He never stops to think, so much he knows, 
But keeps right on a-thinking while he goes : 
A tireless man who searches out the best ; — 
The purest gold within the Golden West. 

God made the State to thrill the poet's heart ; 
To lure the painter's skill, the writer's art, 
But here is one to whom all painters yield. 
Who paints in speech the wealth of fruited field, 
And writes the glories of the land he knows 
Whose breath is perfume and whose blush a rose : 
No other man has made it quite so clear 
That Eden lost, is found again out here. 

He thinks a thought that no one thought before 
He plants a rose beside some cheerless door ; 
Creates a joy in some poor ragged breast 
Where simple joy is such a seldom guest. 
In his big heart so many virtues blend 
His arms are ever out to help a friend. 
God made a man — so much his worth proclaims — 
When He had finished up George Wharton James. 



206 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

After the song Dr. James gave a characteristic address 
expressive of his joy at the appreciation shown him and his 
work. He strongly emphasized the thought that it had all 
been a work of love, hence had brought as much or more to 
himself than had been given to others. In choice words he 
glorified the Expositions of San Francisco and San Diego and 
thanked "Whatever Gods there are" for giving him the privi- 
lege of two years of such joj^ous work in connection with 
them. His address was full of pathos and tenderness at 
times, and again flashed out in his vivid and eloquent manner 
as some especial memory possessed him. His audience was in 
perfect sympathy with him and responded with breathless 
attention and hearty applause. 

It should be noted that Dr. James was scheduled to give 
some personal reminiscences of noted English Authors, but as 
it was growing late and chilly he begged to be excused. The 
Chairman, Dr. Spalding, however, called for an expression 
from the audience, and as the response was unanimous that 
the address be given, the speaker resumed the platform and 
gave a most interesting and fascinating address upon his 
remembrances of George Eliot, Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, 
Ruskin, Carlyle, Beatrice Harraden and others. 

In concluding his address Dr. James jokingly referred to 
the perfect attention that had been accorded him that after- 
noon. He had not had to rebuke anyone for whispering, or 
for thoughtless disturbance of others. He expressed gratitude 
that so many people had responded to his endeavors to procure 
a more careful hearing of concert, opera, sermon, or lecture, 
and urged upon his hearers a perpetual application cf the 
principles he had sought to inculcate. If he had made entmies 
by his endeavors, they were made in a good cause, and he 
asked his friends "to love him the more for the enemies he 
had made." 

A most delightful afternoon was brought to a close by Dr. 
H. J. Stewart's improvisation upon the massive open-air 
Spreckles organ, of a melody composed by Dr. James some 
years ago, which had become quite popular among the mem- 
bers of the Literature Class. Words had been composed for 
it by Alice Ward Bailey, in her novel, "The Sage Brush 



GEORGE WHARTON JAMES DAY 207 

Parson," in which many incidents in the life of Dr. James, 
while a Methodist minister in Nevada, were recorded. Mrs. 
Bailey's song is as follows : 

THE TROUBADOUR 

Along the shining way there came, 
A Troubadour ! A Troubadour ! 
As out of darkness shines a flame, 
And in his hand no harp he bore. 
He sang of joy in overflow. 
He sang the pain mankind must know ; 
And they who listened to that voice. 
With it did mourn, with it rejoice. 

But more than this thou broughtest me, 

Troubadour ! O Troubadour ! 
All that I thought and meant to be, 
Like flooding wave returns once more. 

1 take the joy, I dare the pain, 
Content to be myself again. 

Sing on. Sing on, as God hath meant, 
My Heart shall be thy instrument. 

As many who had heard Dr. James during the year of his 
lectures had felt the power of his spoken words to move them 
to live "all that they thought and meant to be," it seemed to 
be singularly appropriate that this thought should be the one 
with which his distinguished and felicitious work at the 
Exposition should close. 




CHAPTER VII 

MR. WINSLOW'S BOOK ON THE 
EXPOSITION 

|S I have clearly expressed in former chap- 
ters San Diego had much to be proud of 
in her dainty, beautiful, and attractive Ex- 
position. To produce this ensemble of 

delight, wonder and glory required many 

minds. The genius and work of a score or more 
were centered, for long months, upon its conception 
and realization. In order to understand aright and 
appreciate, even approximately, the full significance 
of the Exposition one must know something of the 
mind of its creators. In its architecture this has 
been made possible by the publication of a book, its 
appearance commensurate with the dignity of the 
subject, both in typography and illustration, entitled 
"The Architecture and the Gardens of the San 
Diego Exposition'^ ; a pictorial survey of the Aes- 
thetic features of the Panama-California Interna- 
tional Exposition. 

This book was written by Carleton Monroe 
Winslow, who did much of the architectural work 
of the Exposition, and the illustrations are from 
photographs made by the well-known artist of San 
Diego and Coronado, Harold A. Taylor. The 
introduction was written by Bertram Grosvenor 
Goodhue, of New York, the advisory and consulting 
architect of the Exposition, hence the work through- 
out bears the stamp of authority. 



WINSLOW'S EXPOSITION BOOK 209 

That the San Diego Exposition was entirely dif- 
ferent from any other Exposition ever held, all that 
know are aware, but it remained for Mr. Goodhue 
to point out the reason for the difference. The vast- 
ness, enormousness of other Expositions grew out 
of their desire to gather together as many of the 
varied products of man's genius and skill as all the 
nations of the earth could supply. Hence, while 
the San Francisco Exposition was noble, large, beau- 
tiful and successful, it was, after all, "no more than 
the most recent of a great series of not very dis- 
similar things." Then Mr. Goodhue continues: 

At San Diego the case was different. Though rapidly increas- 
ing in population, San Diego cannot yet be considered a great city. 
. . . Yet it did project and did carry out a smaller exhibition, 
not a World's Fair in the strictest sense of the term, but rather one 
that was cultural and regional. It endeavored to reflect the past 
of that great section of the country of which it forms the natural 
seaport, and to obtain insofar as this was possible, something of 
the effect of the old Spanish and Mission days and thus to link the 
spirit of the old seekers of the fabled Eldorado with that of the 
twentieth century. 

In speaking of the charm and glamour of the 
country Mr. Goodhue thus eloquently expresses 
himself about San Diego : 

Judged by all ordinary and extraordinary canons of beauty, 
the regions that may, because of their climate, foliage, color and 
form, be held to be the loveliest are but few in number — the 
Riviera, the Bays of Naples and Salerno, some of the Greek 
Islands, certain mountain valleys in India, the Vega of Granada, 
the parallel one of Shiraz — the list is almost exhausted now and 
the New World is not yet reached. Yet — except for the charm 
that comes from works of man softened by centuries of use, the 
glamour given by ages of history, the tender respect always com- 
manded by things that are venerable — in Southern California may 
be found every attraction possessed by those cited — the tenderest 
of skies, the bluest of seas, mountains of perfect outline, the richest 
of sub-tropical foliage, the soft speech and unfailing courtesy of 
the half-Spanish, half-Indian peasantry — even much in the way 
of legendry that has wandered slowly northward in the wake of the 
padres. 



210 EXPOSITION MEMORIES 

Mr. Goodhue then clearly differentiates between 
what is permanent in the buildings and gardens of 
the Exposition and what is temporary — constructed 
with the definite idea of its removal as soon as it 
had served its purpose. 

His Introduction is followed by a most able and 
comprehensive, though brief, essay on the Spanish 
Colonial style of architecture by Clarence S. Stein, 
after which Mr. Winslow takes up in detail the 
descriptions of both architecture and gardens. 
Aided by the fine photographs — some of which are 
reproduced in these pages by the courtesy of the 
artist and the publisher — one can gain a full idea 
of the beautiful thoughts called forth by the charm 
and history of the country and which eventuated in 
the dreams of beauty which entranced all who came 
to see them. Not a detail is missed, and those who 
sought in vain during the early days of the Exposi- 
tion for an explanation of the figures, designs, and 
symbols used on the buildings, can here gain the 
full answer to all their questionings. 

Indeed to those who find joy in the renewal of 
their sweet and perfect memories of a sweet and 
perfect Exposition, I regard this book as invaluable, 
hence this added chapter to call attention to it. It 
may be had from every bookseller in California, or 
direct from the publishers, Paul Elder & Co., of 
San Francisco, to whose genius in fine book mak- 
ing the volume owes its exquisite and artistic 
appearance. 



INDEX 



Titles to chapters are in Small Capitals. 
Titles of writings or poems are in italics. 



Aber, Mrs. Marguerite C, 42 
Aborigines, Literature of Cali- 
fornia, 47 
Adams, H. Austin, 82 
Allen, Mrs. A. B., 63 
A Night Wi' Burns, 129 
Anti-Whispering Society, 29 
Architecture of Exposition, 15 
Army Flier, The, 165 
Asher, Robert H., 82 
At Last I Knoijj Life, 114 
At One With Thee, 86 
Audience, Annoying An, 27 
Author's Days, California, 
37, 41, 59-75 

Bailey, Mrs. A. W., 47 
Bailhache, Adaline, 83, 199 
Ballad of the Oregon, 152 
Banquets, 20 
Barteau, Daisy M., 86 
Beach, Mrs. Amy M., 18, 63 
Beachy, the Aeronaut, 20 
Berryhill, Anna E., 90 
Bierce, Ambrose, 40 
Bigelow, L. Adda Nichols, 92 
Bird Box Day, 18 
Bird Day, 18 
Blake, Dean, 65 
Bond, Carrie Jacobs, 18 
Bouquel, the Aviator, Joe, 20 



Bradley, Bessie Lytle, 95 
Bride's Psalm of Joy, 192 
Broderson, Mrs. Lola, 69 
Brown, Helen Richardson, 93, 

203 
Browning, Robert, Lectures on, 

53 
Brooks, Fred Emerson, Day, 37, 

40, 66, 205 
Brubaker, Edith, 47 
Bungaloiv, White, 40, 56 
Bunker Hill Day, 18 
Burns, A Night Wi\ 129 
Butterfly, The, 162 

Cabrillo Bridge, 11, 14, 23 
California Author's Days, 37, 

41, 59-75 
California Birthday Book, 43 
California Building, 11, 13 
California Lectures, 27, 36 
California Literature Class, 

25, 39, 25-58 
California Literature Room, 42 
Call to Arms, The, 87 
Call of the Open Air, The, 187 
Campbell, Ellen Hosmer, 97 
Captain, Educated Horse, 16 
Cheer Up, 106 
Cheney, John Vance, Day, 37, 

38, 40. 68 



212 



INDEX 



Childs, Miss, 73 
Choruses, 18 
Church, Virginia, 100 
City Librarian, 41 
Clark, Nettie Finley, 100 
Clough, E. H. (Yorick), 101, 

124, 145 
College Women's Club, 38, 39 
Columbus, 65 
Connolly, James, 105 
Conroe, Grace Sherburne, 58 
Coolbrith, Ina, Day, 37, 38, 40, 63 
Coronado, Hotel del, 49, 129 
Coronado Sketches, 191 
Corral, The, 123 
Cox, Miss, 68 
Creed, My, 106 
Cristobal Cafe, 20 
Currier, Miss Julia, 68 

Dana, 40 

Dan, My Operator, 17 

Darling, Ernest, 16 

Day is a Loom, 0, The, 157 

Day is Coming, The, 157 

Davidson, President G. A., 204 

Dean, Jessie F., 200 

Eastern Entrance, 12 
Edwards, George, 61 
Elegy of Old Toivn, An, 179 
Eldridge, Edward F., 106 
Ellis, Madame, 16 
Ely, Samuel London, 112 
Escondido Grapes, 45 
Evening in California, 174 
Evening, Panama-California 

Exposition, 182 
Exposition, Beautiful, 173 



Fagin, Mrs. Maude Ervay, 39, 

114 
Fancy's Garden, 169 
Farnham, Mrs. Alice, 61 
Fine Arts Building, 11, 13 
Flowers, 12 

Flume Walker, The, 121 
Fog Horn, The, 95 
Fog That Comes In at Night, 

The, 191 
Ford, Alexander Hume, 16 
Foreign Industries Bujlding, 11, 

13 
Franklin, Caroline Remondino 

IX., 116 
Fraser, Mrs. Grace H., 38 
French, Frank Arthur, 121 
Fromm, Mr. and Mrs., 17 
Fruit Soup, 46 
Fullfilmeni, A Bride's Psalm of 

Joy, 192 
Fullam, Admiral, 49 
Fuller, George, Judge, 123 



Gage, L5aiian J., 50, 51 

Gage, James R., 129 

Gardens, Exposition, 13 

Girls of San Diego, The, 91 

Gee, Miss, 16 

Getz, Tom, 16 

Gilbert, Miss, 7 

Globe Mills, 44 

Goodhue, Bertram Grosvenor, 

15, 208 
Grant's Crackers, 46 
Green Fairy, The, 163 
Guignon, Henri, 13, 17 
Gwynne, Bertha Lowry, 134, 203 
Gypsy Heart, The, 156 



INDEX 



213 



Hardy, Minnie Johnson, 135, 197 
Hardy's, 44 
Hart, Mr., 61 

Harte, Bret, Day, 37, 38, 40, 60 
Hawaiian Day, 18 
Heliotrope Hedge, 13 
Heller's, 44 
Helping Hand, 49 
Heracles, The Vision of, 158 
Hernan, John J., 49, 68 
Herrman, Miss Jennie, 70 
Hollingsworth, Frederick, 137 
Homeless Jimmie, 142 
Homesteader, The, 160 
Hotel del Coronado, 129 
House Blessing Ceremony, 56 
House Delightful, The, 56 
Horton, Mrs. A. E., 38 
Howard, Mrs. Katherine, 38, 49, 

199 
Huggins, Eli Lundy, 139 
Hume, Leigh A., 42, 44 
Humming Bird, To the, 105 
Huntington, Collis P., 41 
Hyde, Elizabeth Howard, 141, 

197 

In After Years, 194 
Indian Villages, 11 
Introductory, VII 
Isthmus, 11, 16 

/ Would That Men tVere Free, 
189 

James, George W^harton, Birth- 
day of, 43 
Day, 37, 39, 75, 1^5-207 
Dinner, 43 

Lectures on Browning, 53 
Lectures on Tagore, 51 



Letter to, 55 
Song, 205 

Jennings, Miss Marion, 64 
Johnson, Stiles, 144 
Just You, 117 

Kaufmann, Adelheide, Miss, 196 
Kaufmann, Mrs. J., 42, 68 
Kendall, Mrs. Edgar J., 38 
Kinne, Orlando W., 145 
Knapp, W. Buell, 149 

Lament, A, 144 
Lark Ellen's Voice, 141 
Laurel Leaf, A, 145 
Lectures on California Litera- 
ture, 25, 36 
Leopold, Madge, 150 
Library, San Diego Public, 38, 39 
Lily Pond at Exposition, 12 
Line Upon Line, 171 
Literature, California, 36 
Literature of San Diego, 76-79 
Little White Bungaloiu, 58 
London, Jack, Day, 37, 39, 40, 69 
Lonely Wolf, The, 139 
Loose Him and Let Him Go, 188 
Los Angeles, 129 
Love's Bouquet, 196 
Love's Questioning , 186 
Lowenstein, Miss E., 61 

MacDermid, Mrs. S., 73 
MacDonald, Miss Celia, 196 
Maloy, Walter, 26, 46 
Markham, Edwin, Day, 37, 38, 

40, 61, 204 
Man and the Desert, -^,151 
Man With the Hoe, 40 



214 



INDEX 



Materialist, The, 93 
Mayer, Pearl La Force, 151 
McCrackin, Josephine C, Day, 

37, 40, 70 
Meadoiu Lark, Meadow Lark, 

164 
Memory of Myron Reed, In, 147 
Memories of San Diego Expose 

TION, 11-24 
Mikel, Rossiter, 17 
Miller, Joaquin, 150 
Miller, Joaquin, Day, 18, 37, 38, 

40, 64 
Miller, Mrs. E. D., 38, 39 
Miller, Juanita, 40, 65, 196 
Mills, Ellen Morrill, 152 
Minty, Mrs., 64 
Missions, Panorama of, 16 
Mocking-hird, The Anxious, 176 
Moonlight on the Pacific, 175 
Mt. Shasta, 92 
My Creed, 106 
My Faither's Hame, 101 
My Ideal, 149 
My Loves, 84 
My Mother, 138 

Native Bird Tonvhee, 170 
New Mexico Building, 11, 14 
Night on the Beach, A, 192 

Olive Day, 18 

Only Pebble on the Beach, The, 

97 
On the Highway to the City of 

Silence, 101 
Opportunity, 146 
Oregon, The Ballad of the, 152 
Organ Pavilion, 11, 18 
Osborn, G. W., 198 



O, the Day is a Loom, 157 
Our Orchards Laugh, 176 
Outcalt, Mrs. Adele M., 39 
Outcalt, Irving E., 156 
Overland Pony Express, The, 107 

Painted Desert, 11, 16 
Palmer, Mrs. Ella L., 205 
Panama-California Exposition, 

Evening, 182 
Panama Canal, 16 
Panorama of Missions, 16 
Passport, The, 155 
Payson, Mahdah, 159 
Peace Day, 18 
Penfold, H. J., 17 
Penman, Satella Jaques, 160 
Pigeons, 21 

Plaint of the Ships, The, 154 
Plaza de Panama, 18 
Pledge, Anti-Whispering Society, 

34 
Poetry Society, 38 
Pony Express, The Overland, 107 
Post, Denver, 34 
Press Club, San Diego Women's, 

39 
Price, Mrs. Alice Barnett, 61 

Reed, Loren, 65 
Richards, Miss Helene, 61 
Ridgeway Tea Company, 39, 44 
Rose Garden, 13, 17 

San Diego, 128, 137 

San Diego and the Exposition, 
135 

San Diego Authors' Day, 37, 74 

San Diego Club, 38, 39 

San Diego Exposition Litera- 
ture Class, 25-58 



INDEX 



215 



San Diego, Literature of, 76-79 

San Diego Mystery, 82 

San Diego Wednesday Club, 38, 

39 
San Diego Women's Press Club, 

39 
San Diego Writers' Club, 39 
San Diego Writers and Their 

Work, 80-194 
San Joaquin Valley Building, 11, 

13, 26, 46 
Schumann-Heink, 18 
Scott, Carroll de Wilton, 162 
Serra, Junipero, Day, 18 
Shasta, Mt., 92 
Showley Bros., 44 
Shrubbery at Exposition, 12 
Siegenfelder, Miss, 63 
Singing Garden, My, 160 
Sisters, 178 

Skinner to His Mules, The, 159 
Smith, Amy Sebree, 164 
Smith, Art, 20 

Sokul, Deva Ram, 16, 39, 49 
Some Merry Little Men, 184 
Song of the Desert, 151 
Sonnet, Legend of a, 124 
Spalding, Rev. Charles E., 39 
Spanish Singers, 19 
Spreckles' Organ, 17 
Springtime on the Somme, 122 
Spirit of the Desert, 112 
Stadium, 12 
Stahel, Louisa Remondino, 168, 

201 
Stanford, Ida Ghent, 56, 171, 197 
Stanford, Leland Ghent, 172 
Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 40 
Sterling, George, Day, 37,38,40, 

64 



Stewart, Dr. H. J., 17, 63, 65, 

205, 206 
Storm King, The, 161 
Sunset on the Sea, 96 
Swede, The Big, 21 

Tagore, Sir Rabindranath, 49 
Tagore, Lectures by, 52 
Tagore, Lectures on, 50 
Tail of Trusty Jake, 134 
Tainter, Lila Munroe, 38, 178 
Take the Bitter With the Snveef, 

149 
Taylor, George Whiteley, 179 
Taylor, Harold A., 208 
Thomson, Estelle, 176 
Thorpe, Rose Hartwick, Day, 37, 

39, 41, 72, 203 
Thy Love, liZ 
Tie, The, 94 

Tingley, Madame Katherine, 51 
To a Fair San Diegan, 140 
Tommasino's Band, 17, 21 
Toivhee, Native Bird, 170 
Trailed, 166 
Transformation, 96 
Trees, 14 

Troubadour, The, 47 
Troyer, Carlos, 65 
Twain, Mark, Day, 37, 59 
Tyler, Bertha Bliss, 42, 45, 55, 

75, 181, 195 
Tyler, John G., 17, 46 

Uniuelcome Dove of Peace, 141 

Vincent, Mrs. Amy, 64 
Vision of Heracles, The, 158 

Walks About Exposition, 14 



216 



INDEX 



Way, Miss Emma F., 39 
Webley, Dr. Frederick D., 201 
Webster, Elsie Jewett, 185, 196 
Wednesday Club, 38, 39 
Wee Bit Lassie, 100 
What Constitutes Ginger Cor- 
dial, 182 
When Mary Looks at Me, 181 
Where God Walks, 115 
Whispering, Anti-Society, 29 
White Bungalow, 42, 56 
White Bungaloiv, Little, 58 
White Covered Wagon, The, 92 
White Magic, 168 
White, Mrs. Charles P., 61 
Who Shall Separate Us? 84 
Widener, Miss Ethel, 69 
Wilkinson, Marguerite, 191 



Wilson, Mr. and Mrs. C. L., 16, 

37 
Winslow, Carleton Monroe, IS 
WiNSLow's Book on the Exposi- 
tion, 208-210 
Wireless Builder, The, 121 
Wolf's Appeal to D. Campbell, 

The, 131 
Wolf, The Lonely, 139 
Would That Men Were Free, I, 

189 
Would We Were Birds, 169 
Wright, Harold Bell, Day, 37, 
40, 64, 71 

Yates, Mrs. Maribel, 39, 194 
Yaw, Ellen Beach, 18, 141 
Yorick, 101, 124, 145 



